"So late? Do you know if the dog-cart has started yet, Carson?"
"Yes, ma'am, I heard it drive out of the yard half an hour ago," answered the nurse, looking up from her needlework.
"Well, I must go. Good-by, Baby. I think, if you are very good, you might have your dinner with mamma. Din-din—with—mum—mum—mum"—a kiss between every nonsense syllable. "You can bring him down, nurse. I shall have only the ladies with me at luncheon." There were still further leave-takings, and then Christabel went downstairs. On her way past her husband's study she saw the door standing ajar.
"Are you there, Leonard, and alone?"
"Yes."
She went in. He was sitting at his desk—his cheque-book open, tradesmen's accounts spread out before him—all the signs and tokens of business-like occupation. It was not often that Mr. Tregonell spent a morning in his study. When he did, it meant a general settlement of accounts, and usually resulted in a surly frame of mind, which lasted, more or less, for the rest of the day.
"Did you know that Mr. Hamleigh had gone woodcock shooting?"
"Naturally, since it was I who suggested that he should have a shy at the birds before he left," answered Leonard, without looking up.
He was filling in a cheque, with his head bent over the table.
"How strange for him to go alone, in his weak health, and with a fatiguing journey before him."