"Where's your mother?" he rejoined, paying no attention to their remark.
"She is upstairs in her sitting-room."
Mr. Chattaway turned to the staircase and ascended. Mrs. Chattaway was not in her room; but the sound of voices in Miss Diana's guided him to where he should find her. This sitting-room, devoted exclusively to Miss Diana Trevlyn, was on the side of the house next the rick-yard and farm-buildings, which it overlooked.
The apartment was almost in darkness; the fire had dimmed, and neither lamp nor candles had been lighted. Mrs. Chattaway and Miss Diana sat there conversing together.
"Who is this?" cried the former, looking round. "Oh, is it you, James? I did not know you were home again. What a fine day you have had for Whitterbey!"
Mr. Chattaway growled something about the day not having been particularly fine.
"Did you buy the stock you thought of buying?" asked Miss Diana.
"I bought some," he said, rather sulkily. "Prices ran high to-day."
"You are home late," she resumed.
"I came round by Blackstone."