summer-house.

Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were alone.

"I am sorry for this, Geoffrey. I hope and trust you will get to London
in time."

He stopped. There was something in Geoffrey's face--a strange mixture of
doubt and bewilderment, of annoyance and hesitation--which was not to
be accounted for as the natural result of the news that he had received.
His color shifted and changed; he picked fretfully at his finger-nails;
he looked at Arnold as if he was going to speak--and then looked away
again, in silence.

"Is there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about your
father?" asked Arnold.

"I'm in the devil's own mess," was the answer.

"Can I do any thing to help you?"

Instead of making a direct reply, Geoffrey lifted his mighty hand, and
gave Arnold a friendly slap on the shoulder which shook him from head
to foot. Arnold steadied himself, and waited--wondering what was coming
next.

"I say, old fellow!" said Geoffrey.

"Yes."