“Did he?”

She had made Lawrence feel uncomfortable again in the region of the heart, but he was deliberately stifling pity, as five years ago, in a Peruvian fonda, he had subdued his filial tenderness and grief.  He was not callous:  if he had had the earlier cable he would have sailed for home without delay.  But since Andrew Hyde was dead and would never know whether his son wept for him or not, Lawrence set himself to repress not only tears but the fount of human feeling that fed them.  He had dabbled enough in psychology to know that natural emotions, if not indulged, may only be driven down under the surface, there to work havoc among the roots of nerve life.  Lawrence however had no nerves and no fear of Nemesis, and no inclination to sacrifice himself for Bernard, and he determined, if Wanhope continued to inspire these oppressive sensations to send himself a telegram calling him away.

He changed the subject.  “It’s a long while since I’ve heard stockdoves cooing.  And, yes, that’s a nightingale.  Oh, you jolly little beggar!” His face fell into boyish creases when he smiled.  “Do you remember the nightingales at Farringay?  Laura—­ may I say it?—­while rusticating in Arden you haven’t forgotten certain talents you used to possess.  The dress is delightful, but where the masterhand appears is in the way it’s worn.  That carries me back to Auteull.”

“Nonsense!” said Laura, changing her attitude, but not visibly displeased.

“Oh I shan’t say don’t move” Lawrence murmured.  “The slippers also. . . .  Are there many trout in this river, I wonder?  Hallo! there’s a big fellow rubbing along by that black stone!  Must weigh a cool pound and a half.  I suppose the angling rights go with the property?”

“You can fish all day long if you like:  the water is ours, both sides of it, as far south as the mill above Wharton and a good half-mile upstream.  The banks are kept clear on principle, though none of us ever touch a line.  The Castle people come over now and then:  Jack Bendish is keen, and he says our sport is better than theirs because they fish theirs down too much.  Val put some stock in this spring.”

“Val?”

“You seem to fit in so naturally,” Laura smiled, “that I forget you’ve only just come.  Val is Bernard’s agent, and I ought not to have omitted him from our list of country neighbours, but he’s like one of the family.  Bernard wants you, to meet him because he was near you in the war.  But I don’t know that you’ll have much in common:  Val was very junior to you, and he’s not keen on talking about it in any case.  So many men have that shrinking.  Have you, I wonder?”

“I’m afraid I don’t take impressions easily.  Didn’t your friend enjoy it?”

“He had no chance.  He had only six or seven weeks at the front; he was barely nineteen, poor boy, when he was invalided out.  That was why Bernard offered him the agency—­he was delighted to lend a helping hand to one of his old brother officers.”