“The best thing to be done’s to let her alone,” said Harry. “They’ve put her up at Hatherton, I hear.”
“That’s one thing,” murmured Charles, with a great sigh. “I’m a heart-broken man, Harry.”
“That’s easy mended. Don’t prosecute, that’s all. Get out o’ the country when you’re well enough, and they must let her go, and maybe the lesson won’t do her no great harm.”
“I’m glad I have you to talk to,” murmured Charles, with another great sigh. “I can’t get it out of my head. You’ll help me, Harry?”
“All I can—’taint much.”
“And, Harry, there’s a thing that troubles me.” He paused, it seemed, exhausted.
“Don’t mind it now, you’re tirin’ yourself. Drink a glass o’ this.”
And he filled the glass from which he had been drinking his port.
“No, I hate wine,” he answered. “No, no, by-and-by, perhaps.”
“You know best,” he acquiesced. “I suppose I must drink it myself,” which necessity he complied with accordingly. “I heard the news, you know, and I’d a come sooner but I’m taking an action next ’sizes on a warranty about the grey filly against that d——d rogue, Farmer Lundy, and had to be off t’other side o’ Wyvern wi’ the lawyer. ’Taint easy to hold your own wi’ the cheatin’ chaps that’s going now, I can tell ye.”