“I did not mean it to be cold-hearted; you have always taught me to consider the race.”
“And so you ought,” he said, “though you don’t care so much for the blazon as I could wish. I should like to talk to Burn and to see what the lawyers would think of it. I confess I should like to be Lord of the Manor at Critchley again before I die.”
“And so you shall, father, so you shall!” she cried. “We could do it with an effort: if only you would—if only you could—— ”
He interrupted her hastily.
“When Burn comes to-morrow let me see him,” he said. “This is no question of what I could or would. If it can be done it ought to be done. That is all I have to say. Is it not time you were having tea?”
This was to send her away that he might have his evening nap after dinner. Mary rose at the well-known formula, but she came softly round to his end of the room to see that the fire was as he liked it, and lingered behind his chair, not knowing whether to make another appeal to him. Her presence seemed to make him restless; perhaps he divined what was floating in her mind. He got up quickly before she had time to speak.
“On second thoughts,” he said, “as I was disturbed before dinner, I had better resume my work at once. You can send me a cup of tea to the library. It is not often that one has such a satisfactory piece of work in hand; that charms away drowsiness. Be sure you send me a cup of tea.”
“You will not—over-fatigue yourself, father?” said Mary, faltering. “I—hope you will not do too much.”
This was not what she meant to say, but these were the only words that she could manage to form out of her lips.
“Oh, no; do not be uneasy. I shall not overwork myself,” said the Squire once more, with a laugh.