De Courcy looked at him and laughed.
"I am glad, Derwent, that I am not likely to rile you. I should say you would be apt to lapse into those primitive customs."
"De Courcy," the Squire said, "your father has gone away for the night, hasn't he?"
"Yes. He's Rural Dean, you know, and has driven over to an outlying parish. The rector is putting him up."
"Then you had better stop the night here. It will be lonely for you."
"Thanks, no. The governor would not care for the house to be left to itself. You know, Derwent," he went on, "the governor is awfully faddy, and will let no servant sleep in the Rectory but the housekeeper, and she went two days ago to a dying daughter. Daughter isn't dead yet, so I shall be entirely alone."
Derwent expressed surprise, yet he had been fully aware of this. It was indeed current gossip in the village. The whims of the rector made a good deal of conversation in the course of a year.
At ten o'clock Derwent and De Courcy started together. Both walked, for the night was fine, though a strong wind came over the moor.
"Dear old moor!" De Courcy said. "It blows us strength in the hottest of weather."
"The wind is strong—it will increase." Derwent remarked this with satisfaction.