"I beg your pardon," said Dr. Blundell, "but--"

"I am not offended," interrupted Sir Timothy, mistaking remonstrance
for apology. He was quite honestly incapable of supposing that his
physician would presume to argue with him.

"You do not, very naturally, understand Lady Mary's disposition as
well as I do," he said, almost graciously. "She has been sheltered
from anxiety, from trouble of every kind, since her childhood. To me,
more than a quarter of a century her senior, she seems, indeed, still
almost a child."

Dr. Blundell coloured. "Yet she is the mother of a grown-up son," he
said.

"Peter grown-up! Nonsense! A schoolboy."

"Eighteen," said the doctor, shortly. "You don't wish him sent for?"

"Most certainly not. The Christmas holidays are only just over. Rest
assured, Dr. Blundell," said Sir Timothy, with grim emphasis, "that I
shall give Peter no excuse for leaving his work, if I can help it."

There was a tap at the door. The squire lowered his voice and spoke
hurriedly.

"If it is the canon, tell him, in confidence, what I have told you,
and say that I should wish him to be present to-morrow, in his
official capacity, in case of--"