“You must have seen a great deal,” said Valencia.
“No end,” assented Harborough. “In all corners of the globe! But—I thought I’d never seen anything half so attractive as my own old house when I reached it, today! And I’m not going to leave it again. Settle down, you know.”
“Greycloister is a beautiful place,” said Valencia. “I have often walked through your park during your absence—and wondered how you could leave it so long.”
“I had reasons,” said Harborough. “However, here I am again, and very glad to see everybody once more. I’ve brought home a tremendous collection of all sorts of things—I hope you’ll come across and see them, soon?”
“Delighted!” replied Valencia. “I suppose you’ll make a sort of museum?”
“Give a lot of ’em away, I think,” said Harborough. “No end of things from one place or another. But—bless me, is this Harry?”
The door had opened again, and a young man had come quietly into the room. He was tall, thin, dark; he wore spectacles, and had a shy, reserved look about him that suggested the student. He smiled slightly as he shook hands with the visitor, but said nothing.
“Harry to be sure,” assented Valencia. “Changed, no doubt, as much as—as I have. Still—you remember him?”
“I remember that he went out shooting with me, in my woods, a day or two before I cleared off,” said Harborough. He looked from brother to sister with a ruminative inquisitiveness. These two were the younger lot, he was thinking: Guy Markenmore, their elder brother, son of Sir Anthony’s first marriage, was several years their senior; he would now be about Harborough’s own age. “Done a lot of shooting since those days, no doubt?” he continued, glancing at the brother. “Used to be famous, your lands, for game of all sorts.”
Harry Markenmore smiled again, and again said nothing; his sister replied for him.