“Emma, you are an angel! It’s a splendid idea! Mrs Thornton begged us to let her help in any way she could. We’ll call this very afternoon, when we go down to post off the flowers, and I’m sure she will be delighted to lend them. Now we can have our first lesson to-morrow. That’s glorious! I do hate to wait when I have planned anything nice.”
At luncheon Mr Farrell made his appearance, and listened with polite indifference to the history of the morning’s doings as volunteered by his guests. He asked no questions, made no suggestions, and retired into the library the moment the meal was over for his daily perusal of the Times. Here for the first time he discovered the inconvenience of the novel interruption to his solitude, for the newspaper was missing from its accustomed place, and, on ringing to make inquiries, he was informed that Mr Melland had carried it off to the billiard-room.
“Tell Mr Melland, with my compliments, I should be obliged if he would allow me to have it for the next hour—and order two copies for the future,” he said grimly.
And five minutes later Jack appeared in person the bearer of the newspaper and frank apologies.
“I’m really awfully sorry! I did not know you had not seen it. Would you care for me to read aloud any article? I should be glad to be of use.”
“Thank you. My eyes are still quite useful. I prefer to read for myself.”
Jack had the good sense to depart without further protest, and Mr Farrell stretched himself on his big chair with a sigh of relief. He took no pleasure in his guests, whose bright young presence depressed him by reviving memories of happier days. If it had not been for the necessity of choosing an heir, he would have cherished his solitude as his dearest possession. He congratulated himself, however, that by reserving one room for his own use he could be still safe from interruption, and, turning to a leading article, read the first few paragraphs with leisurely enjoyment. The writing was excellent, the views irreproachable, in that they exactly coincided with his own. He turned with anticipatory pleasure to the article next in order, when the sound of a light tap-tap came to the door, and Ruth appeared upon the threshold, blushing shyly.
“Uncle Bernard, Mrs Wolff says that you always read the Times after luncheon... Would it be any help if I read aloud what you wish to hear? Sometimes, when pater is tired—”
“I am obliged to you. I require no help of the sort. Is there any other subject on which you wished to speak to me?”
The tone was so suggestive of concealed wrath that Ruth quailed before it, and the faltering “No” was hardly audible across the room. Mr Farrell lifted the paper from his knee so that his face was hidden from view.