Mr. Fenton seemed irresolute.
“Parson’s, sir, Parson’s.” Tears which the pain had not brought were starting from Howlie’s eyes.
“What will Lewis say? Llewellyn, do you hear?” said the Squire.
There was a pause. The blue muslin princess, who had left the platform, was being consoled by Signora Louisa inside the tent; their high-pitched chatter flowed like a thin stream behind the canvas.
“Eh, Llewellyn? Can’t you answer?” said Mr. Fenton testily.
“Take him, father.”
“But Lewis?”
“I’ll go bail for him,” replied his son.
“But who’s to look after him? Who’s to sit up with him? He’ll want that, doctor, won’t he?”
“He will,” said the doctor gravely.