“What is it, my dear child?” cries kind Mrs. Lambert, as he started.
“Nothing, madam; a twinge in my shoulder,” said the lad. “I speak to my host and hostess? Sure you have been very kind to me.”
“We are old friends, Mr. Warrington. My husband, Colonel Lambert, knew your father, and I and your mamma were schoolgirls together at Kensington. You were no stranger to us when your aunt and cousin told us who you were.”
“Are they here?” asked Harry, looking a little blank.
“They must have lain at Tunbridge Wells last night. They sent a horseman from Reigate yesterday for news of you.”
“Ah! I remember,” says Harry, looking at his bandaged arm.
“I have made a good cure of you, Mr. Warrington. And now Mrs. Lambert and the cook must take charge of you.”
“Nay; Theo prepared the chicken and rice, Mr. Lambert,” said the lady. “Will Mr. Warrington get up after he has had his breakfast? We will send your valet to you.”
“If howling proves fidelity, your man must be a most fond, attached creature,” says Mr. Lambert.
“He let your baggage travel off after all in your aunt's carriage,” said Mrs. Lambert. “You must wear my husband's linen, which, I dare say, is not so fine as yours.”