Still he is persistent.
"From son to son's son, and the women left anywhere and anyhow—that is the Pemberthy law, I expect. I have seen the workings of such a law before. Not that I ought to complain," he adds, with a forced laugh,—a laugh that Mrs. Pemberthy seems suddenly to remember,—"for I have profited thereby."
"Indeed!" says the farmer's widow, for the want of a better answer at the moment.
"I am a younger son; but all my brothers have been swept away by wars or pestilence, and I am "sent" for in hot haste—I, who had shaken the dust of England from my feet for fifteen years."
"Fifteen years?"
"Almost. Don't you recollect the last time I was in this room?"
"You—in this room, Sir Richard?"
"Yes; try and remember when that was. I only come to look at the old place and you, just for once, before I go away again. Try and think, Mistress Pemberthy, as I used to call you."
She looks into the red, sunburnt face, starts, blushes, and looks away.
"Yes, I remember. You are—"