“My dear good girl, it’s nine years ago,” said Lucian, “and there’s no sentiment about me, at my age. Hullo! whom have we here?”
Dolly looked up from the churn and saw a stranger coming up the path. He was a young man of six or seven and twenty, tall, fair, slender, very good-looking, and most correctly dressed. At first glance Dolly saw a resemblance to her last night’s acquaintance, Angela Laurenson. He had the same fair hair, the same dark-grey eyes, and the same delicate and colourless type of features, though his were more regular, his nose in particular being accurately Greek; but the likeness appeared only in the outward mould, Angela’s alertness being replaced by an air of languid tranquillity. He was carrying his bag and a gold-headed cane, and seemed to find the cane alone quite as much as he wished to support.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “could you direct me to The Hall?”
“Go back to our gates and turn to the right, straight on till you come to four cross-roads; take the left-hand road up the hill, and you will see The Hall on your right, a white house among fir-trees,” said Dolly, who had the masculine power of concise explanation.
“About how far is it?”
“Two miles and a quarter.”
“Thanks very much,” said the stranger, with a resigned air, preparing to go.
“Been walking far?” inquired Lucian, who had not failed to notice the dust on his boots.
“From Wemborne. I missed my train and could get no cab,” said the stranger, mentioning a junction twelve miles away.
“Why, man, you must be dog-tired! Have you had any breakfast?”