"Treve was not at Oxford. He had gone to London."
"You told me so. What had he gone there for?"
"A little change, Ferrars said. He had been gone a week."
"A little change? In plain English, a little pleasure, I suppose. Call it what you will, it costs money."
George had seated himself opposite to her, his arm resting on the centre table, and the red blaze lighting up his frank, pleasant face. In figure he was tall and slight; his father, at his age, had been so before him.
"Why did you not follow him to London?" resumed Mrs. Ryle. "It would have been less than a two hours' journey from Oxford."
George turned his large dark eyes upon her, some surprise in them. "How was I to know where to look for him, if I had gone?"
"Could Mr. Ferrars not give you his address?"
"No. I asked him. Treve had not told him where he should put up. In fact, Ferrars did not think Treve knew himself. Under these circumstances, my going to town would have been only waste of time and money."
"It is of no use your keeping things from me," resumed Mrs. Ryle, after a pause. "Has Treve contracted fresh debts at Oxford?"