"Good-night, squire; good-night, Chafy," said Bothwell, moving off.
Heathcote followed him.
"If you are walking home, I'll go part of the way with you," he said.
"What, are you on foot?" asked Bothwell, surprised. "What has become of Timour?"
"Timour is in a barn, with his shoes off, getting ready for the cub-hunting."
"And the rest of your stud?"
"O, I have plenty of horses to ride, if that is what you mean; but I rather prefer walking, in such weather as this. How is it you did not drive home in your cousin's dog-cart?"
"I hate sitting beside another man to be driven," said Bothwell shortly. "There are times, too, when a fellow likes to be alone."
If this were intended for a hint, Mr. Heathcote did not take it. He produced his cigar-case, and offered Bothwell one of his Patagas. He was a great smoker, and renowned for smoking good tobacco; so Bothwell accepted the cigar and lighted it, but did not relax the sullen air which he had assumed when Mr. Heathcote volunteered his company.
"You are not looking particularly well this afternoon, Grahame," said Heathcote, when they had walked a little way, silently smoking their cigars.