She wondered if this had occurred to him, and whether he might already be regretting his rash proposal; and, if so, whether he would find an excuse to cry off, or put a brave face on it. She felt that she could bear it best if he were to cry off, but she also felt that he was not the kind of man to play the jilt, and became so lost in these melancholy reflections that Sir Timothy asked her if she was tired.

Could she have but known it, Philip was not regretting it in the least; and none of the difficulties which she perceived had occurred to him. Nor would they have dismayed him had they done so. Oh the contrary, he would have welcomed them as heaven-sent excuses to escape from the fashionable wedding so much more desirable to women than to men. Had he been asked what kind of a wedding he would like to have, he would have replied without an instant’s hesitation that he would much prefer a private ceremony, with no guests invited, except a groomsman to act as his best man, and Sarah Nidd to give Kate away.

In point of fact, he was not, at that moment, thinking about weddings. On arrival at Freshford House he had driven his curricle to the stables, and had handed his horses over to Mr Templecombe’s head-groom. Halfway to the house, he was met by his host, who greeted him by demanding, in incredulous accents, if her ladyship was trying to discourage his visits to Staplewood by refusing to house his groom.

“That’s it,” replied Philip cheerfully.

“Well, I thought that must be the reason why you tipped me the office to bite my tongue! Coming it strong, ain’t she? I’ve heard of hosts who make it a rule not to house their guest’s postilions or cattle—some of ’em stipulate that only one servant is allowed!—but I call it the outside of enough to tell you she won’t have your groom! Next she’ll be asking you not to bring your valet!”

“Oh, she didn’t say she wouldn’t have my groom! She merely suggested that his presence added unnecessarily to the expenses of maintaining the establishment, and hinted that some unlucky investments had made it imperative for my uncle to retrench. As for Knowle, she has no need to ask me not to bring him! From the moment that the servants at Staplewood discovered that he was not so much a gentlemans’ gentleman as a general factotum they treated him—even Pennymore!—with an hauteur which made him so uncomfortable that he begged me not to bring him here again! Tenby looks after me—and, since I don’t belong to the dandy-set, and am perfectly able to dress myself without assistance, that doesn’t impose a very arduous task upon him!”

“I wonder that Sir Timothy should permit such a thing!” Mr Templecomble blurted out.

“He doesn’t know it,” said Philip curtly. “And he won’t know of it from me! He is far from well—seems to have aged overnight! He lives in his own wing of the house for the most part of the day. When I remember—” He broke off, clipping his lips together.

“Very distressing,” agreed Mr Templecombe sympathetically. “Haven’t seen him riding out this age. I know he don’t hunt nowadays, but he was used to hack round his estates until he had that nasty attack last year. Didn’t seem to pluck up after it. Think he’s had notice to quit, dear boy?”

“I don’t know. He is so much changed! He seems to be content to let all go as it will—wishes only to be left in peace! I suppose, looking back, he always had too gentle a disposition—no stomach for a fight! But in those days, while my aunt lived, he was not put to the test: they were in perfect accord!”

Mr Templecombe tactfully refrained from any other comment than an inarticulate murmur of assent; but after a decent interval had elapsed, he coughed, and ventured to ask: “What does that oily scoundrel say of him?”

Philip had no difficulty in recognizing Dr Delabole in this description. “What you might expect! He sees no cause for immediate alarm—must remind me that my uncle is an old man, and has a weak heart! He impresses upon me that he must not be agitated, and hedges me round with a host of medical terms, when I ask for a more precise diagnosis. He is Minerva’s creature, but—” He paused, his brows drawing together as he considered the matter. A wry smile twisted his mouth; he said: “I must do him the justice to own that he is very attentive to my uncle, and very quick to apply restoratives when my uncle suffers one of his spasms.”

“Ever thought of consulting one of the medical nobs? Croft, or Holford, or—or—well, I don’t know much about any of ’em, but it stands to reason a fellow who sets up his plate in London must be top-of-the-trees!”

“Yes, I have frequently thought of it, but have been foiled, not by Delabole or by Minerva, but by my uncle himself! He has accepted what he feels to be the inevitable, and has begged me not to ask him to submit himself to the ordeal of being catechized and physicked by some stranger. So what can I do? The devil of it is that I fear he may be right!”

They had by this time reached the house, and Mr Templecombe, with an understanding nod, pushed him into the hall, saying: “Shouldn’t wonder at it if he was. Very painful for you, but no sense in letting yourself be thrown into gloom by what you can’t mend. Come and eat your dinner—such as it is! The merest picnic! You know how it is with me now that m’mother has taken Dolly off to London, and left the house in holland covers!”

Having had previous experience of Mr Templecombe’s mere picnics, Philip was unalarmed. Dinner might be set out in the breakfast-parlour, and served by the pantry-boy, but Mr Templecombe’s notion of a picnic included plovers’ eggs, some fillets of salmon, with a caper sauce, a blanquette of fowl, and a raised pie. There were no kickshaws, by which term Mr Templecombe scornfully described fondues and trifles and jellies, opining sagely that Philip had no greater liking for them than he had himself. “Females like ’em, but for my part I think ’em only fit for routs and drums and balls! Well, I put it to you, Philip! How many evening parties have you been to where you wanted to eat the refreshments?”

“True!” agreed Philip. “They look pretty, but, myself, I make a beeline for the ham!”

“Exactly so! And that reminds me!” said Mr Templecombe, looking round the table. “There ought to be a ham now! A devilish good one, too, of our own curing! Here, Tom, where’s the ham?”

The pantry-boy said apologetically that it was all ate up, barring a bit near the knuckle; and upon Mr Templecombe’s demanding indignantly who had eaten it all up, grinned, and said simply: “You did, sir!”

“It must have been a good ham!” remarked Philip, helping himself generously to a dish of salmon. “All the same, I don’t want any, you know. By the by, what was it you wanted to consult me about?”

“Tell you after dinner! Know whom I ran into ’t’other day in Bond Street? Old Prudhoe! Never more surprised in my life! Haven’t seen him in years!”

“No, nor have I. Was he on the toddle?” asked Philip, mildly interested. “I suppose you haven’t heard anything of poor old Treen, have you? I met Minstead when I was last in London, and he told me that it was bellows to mend with Treen: said he was about to wind up his accounts, but I haven’t seen any notice in the papers.”

Since both gentlemen shared a large circle of acquaintances, they fell easily into reminiscence; and, one thing leading to another, and both being landowners and agriculturists, they slid from reminiscence into such fruitful topics as the delinquencies of tenants, and the pigheadedness of farmers; and it was not until they had retired to the library that Philip repeated his question, by which time Mr Templecombe had been able to think of some detail of winter sowing on which he might conceivably have wanted advice—if he had not known quite as much about the most modern methods of farming as his friend. Philip very obligingly gave him the benefit of his own experience, but he was not deceived, and when Mr Templecombe opened his mouth to argue, and then shut it again, he grinned sardonically, and said: “That wasn’t what you wanted to ask me, was it? Empty the bag, Gurney!”

“Well, no!” confessed Mr Templecombe. Fact is, I don’t want to ask you anything! Dashed delicate, and I wouldn’t mention it if you wasn’t a friend of mine! Or if you was still visiting Staplewood as often as you used to do. Can’t get it out of my head that you may not know, and that it ain’t the part of a friend to keep mum!”

“May not know what?” asked Philip levelly.

Mr Templecombe picked up the brandy decanter, and replenished both glasses. Having taken a fortifying drink, he said: “No use beating about the bush. It’s Torquil. People are beginning to talk, Philip.”

“What do they say?” Philip still spoke in a level voice, but a grim note had crept into it, and his eyes were suddenly uncomfortably searching.

“Why, that there’s something devilish odd about him! They don’t understand why he should be kept so close, for one thing. You know, dear boy, you can’t expect people to believe he’s still invalidish when they see him careering all over the countryside on that nervous chestnut of his! Don’t believe it myself! Well, you gave me a pretty broad hint when you told me not to let him dangle after Dolly, didn’t you?”

“With extreme reluctance! I could not let—But I might have spared myself the pains! I found that Minerva was as anxious as I was to prevent such a marriage. That confirmed me in my suspicion! Under ordinary circumstances, one would have supposed it to be a very eligible match, but I fear that the circumstances are not ordinary. Your sister has too many relatives, and this place is too near Staplewood. I collect, by the way, that she didn’t break her heart over Torquil?”