“By the way, doctor,” said the tutor, determined to take the bull by the horns, and glaring at his friend rather fiercely through his eye-glass, “we were talking about you just now. Roger has been telling me about an elder brother of his who died long ago and thinks some record of the death should be made on the vault. I think so too.”
“I was saying,” said Roger, “my father never cared to talk about it; so, except that he died abroad, and that his name was the same as mine, I really don’t know much about him. Did you know him?”
The doctor looked uncomfortable, and not altogether grateful to Mr Armstrong for landing him in this dilemma.
“Don’t you think,” said he, ignoring the last question, “as the Squire did not put up an inscription, it would be better to leave the tomb as it is?”
“I don’t see that,” said the boy. “Of course I should say where he really did die. Where was that, by the way?”
“I really did not hear. Abroad, I understood your father to say.”
“Was he delicate, then, that he had to go away? How old was he, doctor?”
“Upon my word, he was so seldom at home, and, when he was, I saw so little of him, that my memory is very hazy about him altogether. He can’t have been more than a boy of fifteen or sixteen, I should say. By the way, Roger, how does the new cob do?”
“Middling. He’s rather lumpy to ride. I shall get mother to swop him for a horse, if she can. I say, doctor, what was he like?”
“Who?—The cob? Oh, your brother! I fancy he was a fine young fellow, but not particularly good-looking.”