"Ho-ho, that's it, is it?" His uncle laughed. "Well, I can't blame you. She isn't here, though—out with Maggie for a walk." He looked up quizzically into his nephew's face, and then he looked away abruptly. Robert, too, loved the girl.
"Is she?" asked Stewart absently, and he turned toward the library, conscious that in the morning it was deserted, and that he could tell him there without fear of interruption. "The fact is, sir—"
Trevelyan's father stopped short and looked his nephew over.
"What is it? What's the trouble?" he asked concisely.
"Who—with me, sir? Nonsense; I'm all right."
"Was it Sir Archibald or that bit of diplomatic work?" The old man smiled grimly.
"Sir Archibald! I'm dismissed from his books long ago, sir. The diplomatic work promises well. By the way, have you heard the latest from Essex—" He sat down easily on the arm of a big leather chair and lounged across it; his face in shadow—. "It's reported that Davidson is going to raise that dead and buried claim again."
"'A fool and his money—'" said the old officer, and sat down.
"Where's the Little Madre?"
"Out listening to Margie's woes. If her rheumatism don't carry her off soon I'll be inclined to do the job myself. Your mother is turning into her slave!" said his uncle testily.