The two beguiled their walk in talk which, if not exactly what might have been expected of mourners, at least served to restore the boy’s highly-strung mind to its proper tone, and to make the aspect of things in general brighter for him than it had been when he started so dismally from the graveyard.
“Now,” said he, with a sigh, as they entered the house, “now comes the awful business of reading the will. Pottinger is sure to make an occasion of it. It would be worth your while to be present to hear him perform.”
“Thanks!” said the tutor; “I’ll look to you for a full account of the ceremony by and by. I’ll accompany it to slow music upstairs.”
But as it happened, Mr Armstrong was not permitted to escape, as he had fondly hoped, to his piano. Raffles followed him presently to his room and said—
“Please, sir, Mr Pottinger sends his compliments, and will be glad if you will step down to the library, sir.”
Mr Armstrong scowled.
“What does he want?” he muttered.
“He wants a gentleman or two to say ’ear, ’ear, I fancy,” said the page, with a grin.
Mr Armstrong gave a melancholy glance at his piano, and screwed his glass in his eye aggressively.
“All right, Raffles; you can go.”