There was a pause here. Clara did not care enough to engage in the discussion, and old Kincton Knox rumpled his Times uneasily, not knowing whether he was called on for a solution, and not caring to hazard one, for he was seldom lucky.
“Well, and what do you propose to do?” demanded his wife, who thus sometimes cruelly forced the peaceable old gentleman into debate.
“Why,” said he, cautiously, “whatever you think best, my dear.”
“I’m not likely to receive much assistance from you, Mr. Kincton Knox. However, provided I’m not blamed for doing my best, and my servants stormed at for obeying me⸺”
Mr. Kincton Knox glanced unconsciously and penitently at the walnut tree.
“I suppose, as something must be done, and nothing will be done otherwise, I may as well take this trouble and responsibility upon myself.”
“And what am I to say to Sprague?” murmured Mr. Kincton Knox.
“I suppose the young man had better come. Mr. Sprague, you say, is a proper person, and I suppose we may rely upon what he says; I hope so, I’m sure, and, if he does not answer, why he can go about his business.”
In due course, therefore, Mr. Kincton Knox’s reply, which he had previously read aloud to his wife, was despatched.
So Fate had resolved that William Maubray should visit Kincton Hall, while Aunt Dinah was daily expecting the return of her prodigal to Gilroyd.