So down-stairs we went, pausing by mutual consent at the great window at
the stair-head, which looks out on the avenue. Mr. Danvers was riding his
tall, grey horse at a walk, under the wide branches toward the house, and
we waited to see him get off at the door. In his turn he loitered there,
for the good Rector's gig, driven by the Curate, was approaching at a smart
ecclesiastical trot.
Doctor Clay got down, and shook hands with Mr. Danvers; and after a word
or two, away drove the Curate with that upward glance at the windows from
which so few can refrain.
I watched the Rector and Mr. Danvers loitering on the steps as a patient
might the gathering of surgeons who are to perform some unknown operation.
They, too, glanced up at the window as they turned to enter the house, and
I drew back. Cousin Monica looked at her watch.
'Four minutes only. Shall we go to the drawing-room?'
Waiting for a moment to let the gentlemen get by on the way to the study,
we, accordingly, went down, and I heard the Rector talk of the dangerous
state of Grindleston bridge, and wondered how he could think of such things
at a time of sorrow.
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