"Until to-morrow—yes," he says, feeling a sort of relief at his own words. "You can wait until then?"
"Yes, for I cannot go until to-morrow. Did I forget to tell you that Uncle Langton is with me?"
"Is he, really?"
"Yes, and I fear the trip has been too much for him, poor old dear," with loving compassion. "He feels worn and tired. He is lying down this morning. Will you go to him?"
"I shall be very glad. Does he—does he know why you came?"
"No," quietly; then, flushing: "You will not mind if he is a little cross, and—and fault finding? He is so old, you know, and then he is tired and half sick."
"I shall not mind," he answers, a little grimly, as he follows her through a small suite of rooms to Mr. Langton's own especial one.
"Mr. Charteris is here, uncle," she says, quietly ushering the visitor in, and sensitively withdrawing.