"It's all right," said Jack. "You remember old Jackson. He won't say a word. Lucky no one saw us as we came up."
"It doesn't matter much, does it?" said Frank.
There was a pause.
"I say, Frank, when will you tell me—"
"I'll answer any questions after dinner to-night. I simply can't talk now."
Dinner was a little difficult that night.
Mrs. Kirkby had been subjected to a long lecture from her son during the half hour in which she ought to have been dressing, in order to have it firmly implanted in her mind that Frank—whom she had known from a boy—was simply and solely in the middle of a walking-tour all by himself. She understood the situation perfectly in a minute and a half—(she was a very shrewd woman who did not say much)—but Jack was not content. He hovered about her room, fingering photographs and silver-handled brushes, explaining over and over again how important it was that Frank should be made to feel at his case, and that Fanny and Jill—(who were just old enough to come to dinner in white high-necked frocks that came down to their very slender ankles, and thick pig-tails down their backs)—must not be allowed to bother him. Mrs. Kirkby said, "Yes, I understand," about a hundred and thirty times, and glanced at the clock. She stood with one finger on the electric button for at least five minutes before venturing to ring for her maid, and it was only that lady's discreet tap at one minute before eight that finally got Jack out of the room. He looked in on Frank in the middle of his dressing, found to his relief that an oldish suit of dress-clothes fitted him quite decently, and then went to put on his own. He came down to the drawing-room seven minutes after the gong with his ears very red and his hair in a plume, to find Frank talking to his mother, and eyed by his sisters who were pretending to look at photographs, with all the ease in the world.
But dinner itself was difficult. It was the obvious thing to talk about Frank's "walking-tour"; and yet this was exactly what Jack dared not do. The state of the moors, and the deplorable ravages made among the young grouse by the early rains, occupied them all to the end of fish; to the grouse succeeded the bullocks: to the bullocks, the sheep, and, by an obvious connection—obvious to all who knew that gentleman—from the sheep to the new curate.
But just before the chocolate soufflée there came a pause, and Jill, the younger of the two sisters, hastened to fill the gap.
"Did you have a nice walking-tour, Mr. Guiseley?"