"An hour or thereabouts. The road's none so good, and it's not easy going on a night like this. It's thicker over yonder."
"And for an hour, or thereabouts, I'm to be jolted, over a bad road, through this death-like mist. Thank you; the prospect is not inviting. I think we had better go over in the morning. Where, in the neighbourhood, can we get a night's lodging?"
"Nowhere."
"Nowhere? Are you sure?"
"If you think you know better than me you'd better go and look for yourself. I tell you there's not a house round here where they'd have you under the roof--nor her either. I wouldn't, nor yet Mr. Harris, nor any one else."
"This is delightful--thoroughly delightful."
Anything less suggestive of delight than his tone could hardly be imagined. The lady spoke.
"I telegraphed to an old servant of mine, Martha Blair, to go up to the house and to take some one with her, or if she couldn't go herself then to get two other girls to go, to light fires and to make things ready for my coming. Do you know who has gone?"
"No one's gone; I do know that. You'd get no woman from round here to go up to Pitmuir at night, especially if it was known that you were coming."
"Prospects grow more and more delightful."