That expectancy became too painful for the damsel's patience, by-and-by, as the meal advanced.
"I wonder what has become of Mr. Hamleigh," she said. "This is the first time he has been late at breakfast."
"Perhaps he is seeing to the packing of his portmanteau," said Miss Bridgeman. "Some valets are bad packers, and want superintendence."
"Packing!" cried Dopsy, aghast. "Packing! What for?"
"He is going to London this afternoon. Didn't you know?"
Dopsy grew pale as ashes. The shock was evidently terrible, and even Jessie pitied her.
"Poor silly Dop," she thought. "Could she actually suppose that she stood the faintest chance of bringing down her bird?"
"Going away? For good?" murmured Miss Vandeleur faintly—all the flavour gone out of the dried salmon, the Cornish butter, the sweet home-baked bread.
"I hope so. He is going to the South of France for the winter. Of course, you know that he is consumptive, and has not many years to live," answered Miss Bridgeman.
"Poor fellow!" sighed Dopsy, with tears glittering upon her lowered eyelids.