Mrs. Presty bowed again.
The lawyer had his opportunity now.
“Well, Mrs. Linley,” he asked, “what do you say?”
“No—never!” She made that positive reply; and disposed beforehand of everything that might have been urged, in the way of remonstrance and persuasion, by leaving the room. The two persons who remained, sitting opposite to each other, took opposite views.
“Mr. Sarrazin, she won’t do it.”
“Mrs. Presty, she will.”
Chapter XXVI. Decision.
Punctual to his fishing appointment with Kitty, Mr. Sarrazin was out in the early morning, waiting on the pier.
Not a breath of wind was stirring; the lazy mist lay asleep on the further shore of the lake. Here and there only the dim tops of the hills rose like shadows cast by the earth on the faint gray of the sky. Nearer at hand, the waters of the lake showed a gloomy surface; no birds flew over the colorless calm; no passing insects tempted the fish to rise. From time to time a last-left leaf on the wooded shore dropped noiselessly and died. No vehicles passed as yet on the lonely road; no voices were audible from the village; slow and straight wreaths of smoke stole their way out of the chimneys, and lost their vapor in the misty sky. The one sound that disturbed the sullen repose of the morning was the tramp of the lawyer’s footsteps, as he paced up and down the pier. He thought of London and its ceaseless traffic, its roaring high tide of life in action—and he said to himself, with the strong conviction of a town-bred man: How miserable this is!