Mr Gresham glanced at Michael.
“You can take my place,” he said; “you can drop your work for a day, it will make you something less of a ‘dull boy’;” for the younger Gresham had been “grinding” pretty steadily during his stay at Wyverston.
“Sorry to disoblige you,” said Michael, drily, “but my work has nothing to do with it, my work here, that is to say. I must be in London on Thursday morning; I go up by the night express to-morrow. There is no getting out of it,” and he turned away determinedly.
When Michael “looked like that,” his cousin, as well as Mrs Shepton, knew by past experience that there was no more to be said.
“Surly boor,” he muttered under his breath, though the next instant there was a smile on his face, as he addressed his hostess.
“Do you really think it would annoy the squire?” he inquired.
“I am quite sure it would, as you ask me, Bernard,” Mrs Headfort replied, decidedly, “and Evelyn would be the last—”
“Oh, dear, yes,” interrupted Mrs Marmaduke, eagerly. “I would not for worlds, Mr Gresham, have you risk such a thing for my sake. I shall be all right—just as right as on my journey here.”
In face of the want of enthusiasm with which his proposal had been received, there was nothing to be done but for Mr Gresham to withdraw it, and this he did from a mixture of motives. Few things would have distressed him more than to show want of consideration for the now son-less old squire; furthermore, if Bernard Gresham had a special personal foible, it was the fear of looking ridiculous, and he prided himself greatly on his tact.
So with a little bow of unruffled composure he accepted Evelyn’s fiat.