“I thought,” he said, looking at her closely, “as I stood behind you, that there were tears in your eyes.”
She went past him into the hall to meet Sep and his father, who were already on the threshold.
“It must have been the firelight,” she said to Barebone as she passed him.
A minute later Septimus Marvin was shaking him by the hand with a vague and uncertain but kindly grasp.
“Sep came running to tell me that you were home again,” he said, struggling out of his overcoat. “Yes—yes. Home again to the old place. And little changed, I can see. Little changed, my boy. Tempora mutantur, eh? and we mutamur in illis. But you are the same.”
“Of course. Why should I change? It is too late to change for the better now.”
“Never! Never say that. But we do not want you to change. We looked for you to come in a coach-and-four—did we not, Miriam? For I suppose you have secured your heritage, since you are here again. It is a great thing to possess riches—and a great responsibility. Come, let us have tea and not think of such things. Yes—yes. Let us forget that such a thing as a heritage ever came between us—eh, Miriam?”
And with a gesture of old-world politeness he stood aside for his niece to pass first into the dining-room, whither a servant had preceded them with a lamp.
“It will not be hard to do that,” replied Miriam, steadily, “because he tells me that he has not yet secured it.”
“All in good time—all in good time,” said Marvin, with that faith in some occult power, seemingly the Government and Providence working in conjunction, to which parsons and many women confide their worldly affairs and sit with folded hands.