"Been shooting?" Allan asked, as they shook hands.
There was a certain aloofness in their greeting, but nothing churlish or sullen in the manner of either. On Geoffrey's side there was only listlessness; on Allan's a grave reserve.
"No. I look at my dogs every day. The keepers do the rest."
"You are not fond of shooting?"
"Not particularly—not of creeping about a copse on the look-out for a cock pheasant; still less do I love a hot corner!"
He seated himself on the bench by the organ, and began to turn over a pile of music, idly, almost mechanically, not as if he were looking for anything in particular. Allan rose to go, and Mrs. Wornock followed him to the corridor.
"Does he not look wretched? And wretchedly ill?" she asked appealingly; her own unhappiness visible in every line of her face.
"He is certainly changed for the worse since I saw him last. That was a longish time ago, you may remember. He looks hipped and worried. He should go away, as I am going."
"Not like you, Allan, to a savage country. I wish he would take me to Italy for the winter. We could move from place to place. He could change the scene as often as he liked."
"I fear the mind would be the same, though earth and sky might change. Travelling upon beaten paths would only bore him. If he is unhappy, and you are unhappy about him, you had better let him come with Patrington and me."