"No, thank you. I'll walk down the turnips with you, on my way to the house."
There was little left in the turnips, however. A solitary bird got up, almost out of shot, and Mr. Anerley knocked him over very cleverly. There was no smile of triumph, however, on the firm-set lips of the tall, keen-faced, grey-haired sportsman. He quietly put another cartridge into the barrel and walked on, occasionally growling at the dog, which was continually making false points. Almost at the end of the turnips the dog made a very decided point.
"Ware lark! gr-r-r-r!" cried old Thwaites; and at the same instant a fine covey of birds, startled by the cry, got up out of shot. The dog had really been on the scent of the partridges.
Mr. Anerley said nothing, but he did not look particularly pleased.
"If that had not been old Thwaites," muttered Will, "I should have said it was an old fool."
So Will walked on to Chesnut Bank. He had not the heart to tear the old man away from his favourite sport in order to give him this bad news. After dinner, he now thought, would be time enough; and he himself seemed to have gained a respite until then.
But if he was in the meanwhile relieved from the necessity of bearing the evil tidings to his father, there remained his meeting with Dove, which he had for long looked forward to with a half-conscious fear. As he drew near the house, he began to think this the greater trial of the two.
Dove, still sitting in the drawing-room, heard footsteps on the gravelled pathway leading down through the garden. The music almost dropped from her hands as she listened intently for a moment—then a flush of joyous colour stole over her face. But, all the same, she opened the book again, and sate obstinately looking at pages which she did not see.
"Dove," said Will, tapping at the French window, "open and let me in."
No answer—Dove still intently regarding the music.