“Thomas, when do they leave Ashlydyat?”
“Who, sir? The Verralls? They have not had notice yet.”
Sir George stopped. He drew up his head to its full height, and turned to his son. “Not had notice? When, then, do I go back? I won’t go to Lady Godolphin’s Folly. I must go to Ashlydyat.”
“Yes, sir,” said Thomas soothingly. “I will see about it.”
The knight, satisfied, resumed his walk. “Of course you will see about it. You are my son and heir, Thomas. I depend upon you.”
They pursued their way for some little time in silence, and then Sir George spoke again, his tone hushed. “Thomas, I have put on mourning for her. I mourn her as much as you do. And you did not get there in time to see her alive!”
“Not in time. No,” replied Thomas, looking hard into the mist overhead.
“I’d have come to the funeral, Thomas, if she had let me. But she was afraid of the fever. George got there in time for it?”
“Barely.”
“When he came back to Broomhead, and heard of it, he was so cut up, poor fellow. Cut up for your sake, Thomas. He said he should be in time to follow her to the grave if he started at once, and he went off then and there. Thomas”—dropping his voice still lower—“whom shall you take to Ashlydyat now?”