"Surely I cannot leave them in better, more capable hands than these, dear Aunt Julia!" and stooping, I kissed her slim, white fingers. "But go I must—I cannot bear a house; I want space—the open road, woods, the sweet, clean wind!"
"Where shall you go, Peregrine?"
"Anywhere—though first to London."
"And what of your book?"
"I shall never finish it, now!"
"And what of me? Will you leave me lonely? O Peregrine, can you leave me thus in my sorrow?"
"Hush, dear Aunt—listen!"
Through the open casement stole a soft, small sound—a jingle of spurs, the monotonous tramp of one who paced solitary upon the terrace below.
"Your uncle George!" she breathed, her hands clasped themselves anew and into her pale cheeks crept a tinge of warm colour. "I did not expect—your uncle George today!"
"He is lonely too, Aunt Julia. He does nothing but grieve! Indeed I think he is breaking his great generous heart for the brother he loved and honoured so devotedly."