After a word or two which she could not catch, they walked off a little way under the trees. Their conversation grew more earnest. By and by Pauline saw her father step back a pace and salute with great reverence.
(“Yes, of course,” she decided. “He is a very rich man, or he could not be buying such a place. But it will break mamma’s heart—and mine. And what is the place to this man, who appreciates nothing—not even the sun-dial?”)
The two came back slowly, her father walking now at a distance respectfully wide of the visitor. They passed Pauline as if unaware of her presence. The visitor was saying——
“If we do not hold this point to-night, the French will hold it to-morrow. You understand?”
They went through the small doorway into the garden. Pauline followed. Again the visitor seemed to regard the long brick wall—in front of which grew a neglected line of shrubs, making the best of its northern aspect—as its most interesting feature.
“Might have been built for the very purpose with these buttresses.” He stopped towards one and held the edge of his palm against it, almost half-way down. “But you must cut it down, so.” He spoke as if the brickwork were a shrub to be lopped. “Have you a nice lot of planks handy?”
“A few, milord. We keep some for scaffolding, when repairs are needed.”
“Not enough, hey? Then we must rip up a floor or two. My fellows will see to it.”
The gardener rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “To be sure there are the benches in the chapel,” he suggested.
“That’s a notion. Let’s have a look at ’em.”