“When did you get to Wyvern?” asked Charles Fairfield, after a considerable pause.
“Last night,” answered his brother.
“You saw the old man?”
“Not till morning,” answered Henry, with a waggish leer, and a sly glance at Alice.
It was lost, however, for the young lady was looking dreamily and sadly away, thinking, perhaps, of the old Squire, not without self-upbraidings, and hearing nothing, I am sure, of all they said.
“Did you breakfast with him?”
“By Jove, I did, sir.”
“Well?”
“Well? Nothing particular, only let me see how long his stick—his—his stick and his arm, together—say five feet six. Well, I counsel you, brother, not to go within five foot six inches of the old gentleman till he cools down a bit, anyhow.”
“No, we’ll not try that,” said Charles, “and he may cool down, as you say, or nurse his wrath, as he pleases, it doesn’t much matter to me; he was very angry, but sometimes the thunder and flame blow off, you know, and the storm hurts no one.”