Here was an undignified hiatus, if not a finale, to
all his schemes, to the even tenor of his self-restrained, purposeful
life! The west wind was rippling through the orchards which bordered
the garden. The muffled roar of the Atlantic was in his ears, a
strange everlasting background to all the slighter summer sounds, the
murmuring of insects, the calling of birds, the melodious swish of the
whirling knives in the distant hayfield. Wingrave was alone with his
thoughts, and he hated them!
Even Mr. Pengarth was welcome, Mr. Pengarth very warm from his ride,
carrying his hat and a small black bag in his hand. As he drew nearer,
he became hotter and was obliged to rest his bag upon the path and mop
his forehead. He was more afraid of his client than of anything else
in the world.
"Good afternoon, Sir Wingrave," he said. "I trust that you are feeling
better today."
Wingrave eyed him coldly. He did not reply to the inquiry as to his
health.
"You have brought the deed?" he asked.
"Certainly, Sir Wingrave."
The lawyer produced a roll of parchment from his bag. In response to
Wingrave's gesture, he seated himself on the extreme edge of an
adjacent seat.
"I do not propose to read all that stuff through," Wingrave remarked.
"I take it for granted that the deed is made out according to my
instructions."
"Certainly, Sir Wingrave!"
"Then we will go into the house, and I will sign it.
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