"Why? Had Sir Joseph been dying and wished to see me, I'd not have lost a single moment: but it is nothing of the kind, poor man. He is dead, unfortunately: and therefore no cause for haste exists."
"Some one ought to be there."
"Not at all. The Mr. Moore who writes--some good old village doctor, I conclude--will see to things."
"But why should you not go at once, Adam?" she persisted. "What is preventing you?"
"Nothing prevents me. Except that I hate to be hurried off anywhere. And I--I only came back to the garden yesterday."
"The garden!--that's what it is," resentfully thought Mrs. Andinnian. He read on in silence.
"Adam, if you do not go, I shall."
"Do, mother," he said, readily. "Go, if you would like to, and take Hewitt. I hate details of all kinds, you know; and if you will go, and take them on yourself, I shall be truly obliged. Write me word which day the funeral is fixed for, and I will come for it."
Perhaps in all her life Mrs. Andinnian had never resented anything in her favourite son as she was resenting this. She had looked forward to this accession of fortune with an eager anxiety which none could suspect: and now that it was come, he was treating it with this cool indifference! Many a time and oft had she indulged a vision of the day when she should drive in to take possession of Foxwood, her handsome son, the inheritor, seated beside her.
"One of my sons ought to be there," she said, coldly. "If you will not go, Adam, I shall telegraph to Karl."