"'i remember you quite well,' he said."
"Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember you quite well," he said. "You are Herbert, the dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day, and Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs. Gregory, how strange you never mentioned the Rivers' being here. This boy's father is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to meet him."
For a moment there was an awkward silence; Mrs. Gregory looked red and confused, her two sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie looked up suddenly. "Papa is not here, sir: he—he is dead," he said steadily, but in an earnest voice. "I am in Uncle Gregory's office; Eddie is learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor papa lost his money, and we're going to try and get rich, to buy back Riversdale."
"Buy back Riversdale!" Mr. Murray cried. "You don't mean——" then glancing at Mrs. Gregory's confused expression, and the sudden gravity that had replaced the mirth in Bertie's eyes, he stopped, and puckered up his forehead in the strangest way.
"Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?" he asked presently, turning to Mrs. Gregory.
"No, indeed; I did not even know he was here. I fancied he was at the office, as usual."
"Oh! then how did you come to be here, child? Are you alone?" Mr. Murray asked.
"I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday Uncle Gregory said I might have a week's holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just ran straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them all in the hall just starting for Brighton. Oh, it has been so splendid!"
"So you must go back to town to your office next Monday?" the gentleman said, after a moment's frowning. "Well, well, we shall see; this is Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?"