“Where’s Thomas Godolphin?”
“At Ashlydyat. He’s in luck. My Lord Averil has bought it all in as it stands, and Mr. Godolphin remains in it.”
“He is ill, I hear?”
“Pretty near dead, I hear,” retorted Charlotte. “My lord is to marry Miss Cecilia.”
“And where’s that wicked George?”
“If you call names, I won’t answer you another word, Mr. Crosse.”
“I suppose you don’t like to hear it,” he returned in so pointed a manner that Charlotte might have felt it as a lance-shaft. “Well, where is he?”
“Just gone into lodgings with his wife and Margery and Meta. I have been taking tea with them. They left the Bank to-day.”
Mr. Crosse stood, nodding his head in the moonlight, and communing aloud with himself. “And so—and so—it is all a smash together! It is as bad as was said.”
“It couldn’t be worse,” cried Charlotte. “Prior’s Ash won’t hold up its head for many a day. It’s no longer worth living in. I leave it for good to-morrow.”