And with such agreeable conversation they loitered a little at the door, and suddenly, with quick steps, there approached, and passed them by, an apparition.
It was old General Lennox. He had been walking in the park—about the grounds—he knew not where, since daybreak. Awfully stern he looked, fatigued, draggled he well might be, gloveless, one hand in his pocket, the other clenched on his thumb like a child's in a convulsion. His thoughts were set on something remote, for he brushed by the gentlemen, and not till he had passed did he seem to hear Drayton's cheery salutation, and stopping and turning towards them suddenly, he said, very grimly—
"Beg your pardon—"
"Nothing, General, only wishing you good-morning," answered Drayton.
"Yes, charming morning. I've been walking. I've been out—a—thank you," and that lead-coloured and white General vanished like a wicked ghost.
"'Gad, he looks as if he'd got a licking. Did you ever see a fellow look so queer?"
"He's been overworking his mind—business, you know—wants rest, I suspect," said Varbarriere, with a solemn nod.
"They say fellows make themselves mad that way. I wonder has he had any breakfast; did you see his trowsers all over mud?"
"I half envy your walk to Gryston," said Varbarriere, glancing up towards the fleecy clouds and blue sky, and down again to the breezy landscape. "It's worth looking at, a very pretty bit, that steep bridge and glen."
"No notion of coming; maybe you will?"