Stewart began mechanically to count the number of rose bushes at the end of the terrace, and he made a great effort to steady his voice.
"By the way, this last idea of Robert's—this cholera business—is a risky thing. Do you ever feel anxious, sir?"
"The boy's foolhardy, but he's got sense—" the Briton frowned.
"But even sense sometimes——"
The room was still. A bit of summer sunlight sifted through the oriel window. From the distance crept in the murmur of water breaking on the sand. McGuire was busy at the rose bushes near the terrace and the decided "click" of his shears and the soft music of the sea, were the only sounds that broke the quiet of the room.
"John!"
Trevelyan's father rose and stood rigid by the old carved chair. Young Stewart turned and leaned against the woodwork. He grew afraid and trembled. He could not look upon that face.
"Robert! That is why you have come back?"
He nodded.
The sunlight still sifted through the windows and played fitfully around the walnut carvings of the room and touched for a brief moment a bronze paper weight of the Dying Gaul. Someone standing in the open casement window at the south, stirred a little, and then Cary came swiftly down the length of the long room. A bit of heather from the armful she had gathered on the slope slipped from the bunch. The rest she threw upon the table as she passed it, and it lay there—its first, faint pink shining out against the black walnut. She went and stood by Trevelyan's father, resting her hand upon his arm, and she looked up into his face.