George was very pale, but perfectly tranquil--if anything, indeed, more
cheerful than usual.

He shook Robert by the hand with something of that hearty manner for
which he had been distinguished before the one affliction of his life
overtook and shipwrecked him.

"Forgive me, Bob," he said, frankly, "for my surly temper of last night.
You were quite correct in your assertion; the thunderstorm _did_ upset
me. It always had the same effect upon me in my youth."

"Poor old boy! Shall we go up by the express, or shall we stop here and
dine with my uncle to-night?" asked Robert.

"To tell the truth, Bob, I would rather do neither. It's a glorious
morning. Suppose we stroll about all day, take another turn with the rod
and line, and go up to town by the train that leaves here at 6.15 in the
evening?"

Robert Audley would have assented to a far more disagreeable proposition
than this, rather than have taken the trouble to oppose his friend, so
the matter was immediately agreed upon; and after they had finished
their breakfast, and ordered a four o'clock dinner, George Talboys took
the fishing-rod across his broad shoulders, and strode out of the house
with his friend and companion.

But if the equable temperament of Mr. Robert Audley had been undisturbed
by the crackling peals of thunder that shook the very foundations of the
Sun Inn, it had not been so with the more delicate sensibilties of his
uncle's young wife. Lady Audley confessed herself terribly frightened of