“No, I am not ashamed of it,” he said, “but I daresay I would look ridiculous enough to a stranger:” and with this he sat down before his table, on which, amid the writing things, were a child’s trumpet and other articles belonging to a person of very tender years. “And in what can I be of use to you?” he asked.
It was Fred’s turn to grow red. He had been led into this snare against his will. He felt rather disgusted, rather angry.
“I don’t know,” he said, “that it was anything calling for your attention to-day. It was a matter—still undecided. I should not have disturbed you—at a moment of relaxation.”
“Oh, if that is all,” said Mr. Ogilvie with a smile, “I have Rory always, you know. The little pickle is for ever on my hands. He likes me better than the weemen, because I spoil him more, my wife says.”
Having said this with effusion, the good man awoke once more to the fact that his audience was not with him, and grew dully red.
“I am entirely at your service now,” he said; “would it be anything about the wheat? Your grieve is, no doubt, a very trustworthy man, but I would not leave your fields longer uncut if I was you. There is no sun now to do them any good.”
“Thanks, very much,” said Fred, “it was not about the wheat——”
“Or perhaps the state of the woods? There will be a good deal of pruning required, but it will be safest to have the factor over, and do nothing but what he approves.”
“It was not about the woods. It was an entirely personal question. Perhaps another day would be more appropriate. I—have lost the thread of what I was going to say.”
“Dear me,” said the good man, “that’s a pity. Is there nothing that I can suggest, I wonder, to bring it back to your mind?”