He hastily turned
over the sheet of paper on which he had been writing: then he looked
up, not too well pleased.
"Harry, why do you stay in-doors on such a beautiful morning? It is
quite like summer."
"Yes, I know," he said. "I suppose we shall soon have a batch of
parsons here: summer always brings them. They come out with the hot
weather--like butterflies."
Mrs. Trelyon was shocked and disappointed: she thought Wenna Rosewarne
had cured him of his insane dislike to clergymen--indeed, for many a
day gone by he had kept respectfully silent on the subject.
"But we shall not ask them to come if you'd rather not," she said,
wishing to do all she could to encourage the reformation of his ways.
"I think Mr. Barnes promised to visit us early in May, but he is only
one."
"And one is worse than a dozen. When there's a lot you can leave 'em
to fight it out among themselves. But one!--to have one stalking about
an empty house, like a ghost dipped in ink! Why can't you ask anybody
but clergymen, mother? There are whole lots of people would like to
run down from London for a fortnight before getting into the thick of
the season: there's the Pomeroy girls as good as offered to come."
"But they can't come by themselves," Mrs. Trelyon said with a feeble
protest.
"Oh yes, they can: they're ugly enough to be safe anywhere. And why
don't you get Juliott up? She'll be glad to get away from that old
curmudgeon for a week.
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