"My master is up, sir, and would like the paper read to him," said he, addressing Frederick Massingbird.
"Oh, bother, I can't stop now," broke from that gentleman involuntarily. "Tynn, you need not say that you found me here. I have an appointment, and I must hasten to keep it."
Lionel Verner looked at his watch.
"I can spare half an hour," he observed to himself; and he proceeded to Mr. Verner's room.
The old study that you have seen before. And there sat Mr. Verner in the same arm-chair, cushioned and padded more than it had used to be. What a change there was in him! Shrunken, wasted, drawn: surely there would be no place very long in this world for Mr. Verner.
He was leaning forward in his chair, his back bowed, his hands resting on his stick, which was stretched out before him. He lifted his head when Lionel entered, and an expression, partly of displeasure, partly of pain, passed over his countenance.
"Where's Frederick?"
"Frederick has an appointment out, sir. I will read to you."
"I thought you were going down to your mother's," rejoined Mr. Verner, his accent not softening in the least.
"I need not go for this half hour yet," replied Lionel, taking up the Times, which lay on a table near Mr. Verner. "Have you looked at the headings of the news, sir; or shall I go over them for you, and then you can tell me what you wish read?"