“For an hour or two. I am passing a few days at Worcester, and my friends there would not let me go on without first bringing me to see Malvern.”
The stranger spoke like a gentleman and looked like one, looked like a man of substance also (though Foliott did draw down his lips that same evening and speak of him as “nobody”); and Sir John, in his old-fashioned cordiality, begged of Captain Foliott to introduce his friend. Captain Foliott did it with a not very ready grace. “Mr. Crane, Sir John Whitney; Mr. Todhetley.”
“A beautiful place this, sirs,” cried he.
“Yes, only it’s too hot to walk about to-day,” answered they. “Have you been up the hill?”
“No, I can’t manage that: but my friends are gone up. Have you heard lately from your uncle, Captain Foliott?” added Mr. Crane.
“Not very lately.”
“I hear the outward voyage did him a world of good.”
“I believe it did.”
As if the questions of the stranger worried him, Captain Foliott strolled away towards the abbey: the two girls, Tod, and William following him. I stayed where I was: not liking the heat much more than the Squire did.
“You know Mr. Foliott of Milltown?” observed Sir John to the stranger.