The older man turned his head, then turned it away as his son drew up a chair and laid a stick across the andirons.
"It's turned a little chilly," he said.
"I have known of many a frost in May," said his father.
There was a silence; then his father slowly turned and gazed at him.
"How is—Miss West?" he asked stiffly.
"Billy Ogilvy says she will be all right to-morrow, father."
"Was she injured by her unfortunate experience?"
"A little briar-torn, I'm afraid. Those big beech woods are rather a puzzle to anybody who is not familiar with the country. No wonder she became frightened when it grew dark."
"It was—very distressing," nodded his father.
They remained silent again until Mr. Neville rose, took off his spectacles, laid aside The Evening Post, and held out his hand.