He put the paper away in his pocket, and wiped the heavy perspiration
from his forehead. He was pale--for _him,_ strikingly pale--when Arnold
came back.

"Any thing wrong, Geoffrey?--you're as white as ashes."

"It's the heat. Where's Sir Patrick?"

"You may see for yourself."

Arnold pointed to the window. Sir Patrick was crossing the lawn, on
his way to the library with a newspaper in his hand; and the guests at
Windygates were accompanying him. Sir Patrick was smiling, and saying
nothing. The guests were talking excitedly at the tops of their voices.
There had apparently been a collision of some kind between the old
school and the new. Arnold directed Geoffrey's attention to the state of
affairs on the lawn.

"How are you to consult Sir Patrick with all those people about him?"

"I'll consult Sir Patrick, if I take him by the scruff of the neck and
carry him into the next county!" He rose to his feet as he spoke those
words, and emphasized them under his breath with an oath.

Sir Patrick entered the library, with the guests at his heels.


CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.