“It does seem an argument for not breaking the last link with the generation to come.”
The baronet turned round and walked a few paces away from me; then he turned back and said:
“Well, sir, if it is any satisfaction to you, I may tell you that you have already discharged your task. I am Sir Philip Shafthead.”
“What!” I exclaimed, in simulated surprise. “Then I must indeed ask your pardon for the freedom with which I have spoken. My affection for your son is my only excuse.”
“He is fortunate in his friends, sir,” said Sir Philip, though with precisely what significance I could not be sure. “You will now have luncheon with us, I hope.”
We walked in silence to the house, my host's face expressing nothing of what he thought or felt.
In a long, low room whose oak panelling and beams were black with age and whose windows tinged the sunshine with the colors of old coats of arms, I was introduced to Lady Shafthead. She was like her daughter, smaller and slighter than the muscular race of Shaftheads, gray-haired and very charming and simple in her manner. Daisy stood beside her, and both women glanced anxiously from one to the other of us. What those who knew him could read in Sir Philip's countenance, I cannot say. For myself, I merely professed my entire readiness for lunch and my appreciation of Helmscote, but, surreptitiously catching Daisy's eye, I gave her a glance that was intended to indicate a fair possibility of fine weather.
Evidently she read it as such, for she replied by a smile from which all her distrust had vanished.
The meal passed off in outward calm and with no reference to the conversation of the morning. Indeed, Sir Philip scarcely spoke at all, and I was too afraid of making a discordant remark to say much myself.
“You will excuse me from joining you in the smoking-room at present,” said the baronet, when we had finished. “Daisy, you will act as hostess, perhaps?”