"Look here, Cris. That shop is horrid, and I don't mind telling you that I find it so; not an hour in the day goes over my head but I wish myself out of it; but I would rather bind myself to it for twenty years than be master of Trevlyn Hold, if I came to it as you will come to it—by wrong."
Cris broke into a shrill, derisive whistle. It was being prolonged to an apparently interminable length, when he found himself rudely seized from behind.
"Is that the way you walk home from church, Christopher Chattaway? Whistling!"
Cris looked round and saw Miss Trevlyn. "Goodness, Aunt Diana! are you going to shake me?"
"Walk along as a gentleman should, then," returned Miss Trevlyn.
She went on. Miss Chattaway walked by her side, not deigning to cast a word or a look to the boys as she swept past. Gliding up behind them, holding the hand of Maude, was gentle Mrs. Chattaway. They all wore black silk dresses and white silk bonnets: the apology for mourning assumed for Mr. Ryle. But the gowns were not new; and the bonnets were the bonnets of the past summer, with the coloured flowers removed.
Mrs. Chattaway slackened her pace, and George found himself at her side. She seemed to linger, as if she would speak with him unheard by the rest.
"Are you pretty well, my dear?" were her first words. "You look taller and thinner, and your face is pale."
"I shall look paler before I have been much longer in the shop, Mrs. Chattaway."
Mrs. Chattaway glanced her head timidly round with the air of one who fears she may be heard. But they were alone now.