“Robert Vermuyden.”
Vaughan laid the letter down with a groan. As he did so he became aware that Isaac White was in the room. “Halloa, White,” he said. “Is that you?”
White looked at him with unconcealed respect. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Sir Robert bade me wait on you in person without delay. If I may venture,” he continued, “to compliment you on my own account, sir—a very great honour to the family, Mr. Vaughan—in all the west country, I may say——”
Vaughan stopped him, and said something of Lady Sybil’s death; adding that he had never seen her but once.
“Twice, begging your pardon,” White answered, smiling. “Do you remember I met you at Chippenham before the election, Mr. Vaughan? Well, sir, she came up to the coach, and as good as touched your sleeve, poor lady, while I was talking to you. Of course, she knew that her daughter was on the coach.”
“I learned afterwards that Lady Sybil travelled by it that day,” Vaughan replied. Then with a frown he took up the letter. “Of course,” he continued, “I have no intention of attending the funeral.”
“But I think his honour wishes much——”
“There is no possible reason,” Vaughan said doggedly.
“Pardon me, sir,” White answered anxiously. “You are not aware, I am sure, how highly Sir Robert appreciates your gallant conduct yesterday. No one in Bristol can view it in a stronger light. It is a happy thing he witnessed it. He thinks, indeed, that but for you her ladyship would have died in the crowd. Moreover——”
“That’s enough, White,” Vaughan said coldly. “It is not so much what Sir Robert thinks now, too, as what he thought formerly.”