The Maxfield household was a dismal one that evening. Mrs Ingleton in distress had prevailed on Roger to go to bed. Miss Rosalind, defrauded in one day of her two allies, sulked in a dignified way in her own room, and visited her displeasure with the world in general on poor Jill, who consoled herself by beginning a letter to her “dear Mr Armstrong.” Tom, having wandered joyously over the whole house, making friends with everybody and admiring everything, was engaged in the feverish occupation of trying to find his stamp album, which he had left behind in India.
The only serene member of the party was Captain Oliphant, who in the arm-chair of the library smoked an excellent cigar and ruminated on things at large.
“Poor lad!” said he to himself, “great pity he’s so delicate. Not at all a pleasant cough—quite a churchyard tone about it. Tut! tut! I’m not favourably impressed with that doctor; an officious bumpkin, he seems to me. And this Armstrong—I should really like to know a little more about him. Pottinger was decidedly of my way of thinking. Not a nice fellow at all, Armstrong. Wrong sort of companion for Roger. Poor fellow! how he’s coughing to-night.”
And this kindly soul actually laid down his cigar and went out into the passage to listen.
“Shocking cough,” said he as he returned and relit his cigar. Then he took out a document from his pocket—a copy of the will, in fact—and read it again. Which done, he relapsed into genial meditation ones more.
Presently his kindly feelings prompted him to pay his ward a visit.
“Well, my boy, how are you? Better, I hope.”
“Oh, yes,” said Roger, coughing; “it’s only a cold in my head. I’ll soon be all right. I’m awfully sorry to desert the girls and Tom, tell them.”
“Nothing I can do for you, is there?”
“Thanks very much. I’m all right. I shall get to sleep pretty soon. Good night, Cousin Edward.”