“He’s comin’—dammy, who’s a-comin’? Who’s J. A., Mrs. Lightfoot—curse me, who’s J. A.?” cried the husband.
Mrs. Lightfoot cried out, “Be quiet, you tipsy brute, do,” and running to her bonnet and shawl, threw them on, saw Mr. Foker walking down the street, took the by-lane which skirts it, and ran as quickly as she could to the lodge-gate, Clavering Park. Foker saw a running figure before him, but it was lost when he got to the lodge-gate. He stopped and asked, “Who was that who had just come in? Mrs. Bonner, was it?” He reeled almost in his walk: the trees swam before him. He rested once or twice against the trunks of the naked limes.
Lady Clavering was in the breakfast-room with her son, and her husband yawning over his paper. “Good morning, Harry,” said the Begum. “Here’s letters, lots of letters; Lady Rockminster will be here on Tuesday instead of Monday, and Arthur and the Major come to-day; and Laura is to go to Dr. Portman’s, and come to church from there: and—what’s the matter, my dear? What makes you so pale, Harry?”
“Where is Blanche!” asked Harry, in a sickening voice—“not down yet?”
“Blanche is always the last,” said the boy, eating muffins; “she’s a regular dawdle, she is. When you’re not here, she lays in bed till lunch-time.”
“Be quiet, Frank,” said the mother.
Blanche came down presently, looking pale, and with rather an eager look towards Foker; then she advanced and kissed her mother, and had a face beaming with her very best smiles on when she greeted Harry.
“How do you do, sir?” she said, and put out both her hands.
“I’m ill,” answered Harry. “I—I’ve brought a letter for you, Blanche.”
“A letter, and from whom is it, pray? Voyons,” she said.