“But the small squires like it, and so do the poor people, and so do I,” said Squire Wynford; and now he frowned very slightly, and Audrey gave another sigh.
“We must agree to differ, dad,” she said.
“I am afraid so, my dear. Well, and how are you, my pet? I have not seen you until now. Very happy at the thought of your cousin’s arrival?”
“No, dad, scarcely happy, but excited all the same. Are not you a little, wee bit excited too, father? It seems so strange her coming all the way from Tasmania to take possession of her estates. I wonder—I do wonder—what she will be like.”
“She takes possession of no estates while I live,” said the Squire, “but she is the next heiress.”
“And you are sorry it is not I; are you not, father?”
“I don’t think of it,” said the Squire. “No,” he added thoughtfully a moment later, “that is not the case. I do think of it. You are better off without the responsibility; you would never be suited to a great estate of this sort. Evelyn may be different. Anyhow, when the time comes it is her appointed work. Now, my dear”—he took out his watch—“your cousin will arrive in a moment. Your mother has gone to meet her. Do you intend to welcome her here or in one of the sitting-rooms?”
“I will stay in the hall, of course,” said Audrey a little fretfully.
“I will leave you, then, my love. I have neglected a sheaf of correspondence, and would like to look through my letters before dinner.”
The Squire moved away, walking slowly. He pushed aside some heavy curtains and vanished. Audrey still stood by the fire. Presently a restless fit seized her, and she too flitted up the winding white marble stairs and disappeared down a long corridor. She entered a pretty room daintily furnished in blue and silver. A large log fire burned in the grate; electric light shed its soft gleams over the furniture; there was a bouquet of flowers and a little pot of ivy on a small table, also a bookcase full of gaily-bound story-books. Nothing had been neglected, even to the big old Bible and the old-fashioned prayer-book.