It was the night before the funeral, and they were sitting together at twilight in the dining-room. Dr. Knox was looking through the large window at the fountain in the middle of the grass-plat: Mr. Tamlyn had his face buried; he had not looked up for the last half-hour.
“When is the very earliest time that you can come, Arnold?” he began abruptly.
“As soon as ever they will release me in London. Perhaps that will be in a month; perhaps not until the end of June, when the six months will be up.”
Mr. Tamlyn groaned. “I want you at once, Arnold. You are all I have now.”
“Shuttleworth must stay until I come.”
“Shuttleworth’s not you. You must live with me, Arnold?”
“Live with you?”
“Why, of course you must. What am I to do in this large house by myself now he is gone? Bessy will be gone too. I couldn’t stand it.”
“It would be much more convenient for me to be here, as far as the practice is concerned,” remarked Dr. Knox, after reflection.
“And more sociable. Do you never think of marriage, Arnold?”