"Oh, well you've only got to say when, you know. I shall be only too delighted to show them you."
As he walked the trap through the gateway, Dr. Knott watched Richard riding alongside.—"What's up with the boy," he thought. "His face is as keen as a knife, and as soft as—God help us, I hope there's no sweethearting on hand! It's bound to come sooner or later, but the later the better, for it'll be a risky enough set out, come when it may.—Ah, look out there now, you old fool,"—this to Timothy,—"don't go missing the step and laying yourself up with broken ribs for another three months, just when my work's at its heaviest. Be careful, can't you?"
"But why not come in to luncheon now?" Richard said, wisdom whipping up good resolutions once more, and bidding him check the gladness that gained on him at thought of that approaching meeting. Oh yes! he would be discreet, he would erect barriers, he would flee temptation. Knott's presence offered a finely rugged barrier, surely. Therefore, he repeated, "Come in now. My mother will be delighted to see you, and we can have a look round the stables afterwards."
"I'll come fast enough if Lady Calmady will take me as I am. Workaday clothes, and second best lot at that. You're alone, I suppose?"
He watched the young man as he spoke. Noted the lift of his chin, and the slightly studied indifference of his manner.
"No, for once we're not. But that doesn't matter. My Uncle William Ormiston is with us. You remember him?"
"I remember his wife."
"Oh! she's not here," Dickie said. "Only he and his daughter, Madame de Vallorbes. You'll come?"
"Oh! dear yes, I'll come, if you'll be good enough to prepare your ladies for a rough-looking customer. Don't let me keep you. Wonder what the daughter's like?" he added to himself. "The mother was a bit of a baggage."