“It has been a pretty busy day, sir, now Mr. Galloway’s away. I did not go home to dinner, for one thing.”
“And Mr. Roland Yorke absent for another, I suppose?”
“Only this afternoon, sir. His uncle, Lord Carrick, has arrived. Oh, sir!” broke off Jenkins, stopping in a panic, “here’s his lordship the bishop coming along! Whatever shall you do?”
“Do!” returned Arthur, scarcely understanding him. “What should I do?”
“To think that he should see you thus with the like of me!”
It amused Arthur exceedingly. Poor, lowly-minded Jenkins! The bishop appeared to divine the state of the case, for he stopped when he came up. Possibly he was struck by the wan hue which overspread Jenkins’s face.
“You look ill, Jenkins,” he said, nodding to Arthur Channing. “Keep your hat on, Jenkins—keep your hat on.”
“Thank you, my lord,” replied Jenkins, disregarding the injunction touching his hat. “A sort of faintness came over me just now under the elm trees, and this gentleman insisted upon walking home with me, in spite of my protestations to—”
Jenkins was stopped by a fit of coughing—a long, violent fit, sounding hollow as the grave. The bishop watched him till it was over. Arthur watched him.
“I think you should take better care of yourself, Jenkins,” remarked his lordship. “Is any physician attending you?”