The desire to keep his boots clean still apparently held in check the desire that Edward must experience to be near her, and it was across the width of the drive that his answer reached her.
“Not in the least; it would have been odd if you had. He is agent to a man who has a property near here.”
An agent! Miss Ransome had a distinct sensation of disappointment. But agent to whom? Perhaps her chance of promotion was only set one step further off.
“I dare say he will turn up to luncheon to-day. My wife is always glad when he does. She thinks he has not enough to eat at home.”
“Why has not he enough to eat at home?”
“I dare say he has; but Camilla is convinced that when all the ten children are helped, there is not much left of the leg of mutton.” (Ten children!) “Poor chap!” continued Edward; then, checking his expression of compassion, “though I do not know why I pity him. He probably gets quite as much out of life as the rest of us”—with a smile. “He is a fair shot, and he used to play the ’cello a bit, but he has given that up; and I think that is nearly all about him.”
“How monstrous of anybody to have ten children!” she said with the shocked accent of a philanthropist hearing of a great crime.
He did not feel inclined to discuss the subject with her; and his silence recalled her to the consciousness that the turn of her phrase was not that of the jeune fille.
“Agent to whom, did you say?”
“I do not think I did say; he is agent to Sir Frederick Milward.”