Mr. Monckton took up his hat, shook hands with his ward and with Mrs. Darrell, and then went over to the window at which Eleanor sat.
“How silent you have been this morning, Miss Vincent,” he said.
The girl blushed as she looked up at the lawyer’s grave face. She always felt ashamed of her false name when Mr. Monckton addressed her by it.
“When are you and Laura coming to see my new picture?” he asked.
“Whenever Mrs. Darrell likes to bring us,” Eleanor answered, frankly.
“You hear, Mrs. Darrell?” said the lawyer; “these two young ladies are coming over to Tolldale to see a genuine Raphael that I bought at Christie’s a month ago. You will be taking your son to see his uncle, I have no doubt—suppose you come and lunch at the Priory on the day you go to Woodlands.”
“That will be to-morrow,” answered Mrs. Darrell. “My uncle cannot deny himself to Launcelot after an absence of nearly five years, and even my sisters can scarcely have the impertinence to shut the door in my son’s face.”
“Very well; Woodlands and the Priory lie close together. You can cross the park and get into Mr. de Crespigny’s grounds by the wicket-gate, and so surprise the enemy. That will be the best plan.”
“If you please, my dear Mr. Monckton,” said the widow.
She was gratified at the idea of stealing a march upon her maiden sisters, for she knew how difficult it was to effect an entrance to the citadel so jealously guarded by them.