"There's soom o' them has been i' their
packing-cases ever sin' I can remember, an' the carpets rolled up aw
deep in dust. And there's not a thing been unpacked now i' the house
itsel', for fear o' t' dust, an' Mr. Faversham. The men carried it aw oot
o' that door"--he pointed to the far western end of the gallery--"an'
iverything was doon out o' doors, all t' carpets beaten an' aw, where Mr.
Faversham couldna hear a sound. An' yesterday Muster Melrose and Muster
Faversham--we browt him in his wheeled chair yo' unnerstan'--fixed up a
lot o' things together. We havna nailed doon th' matting yet, for fear
o't' noise. But Muster Faversham says noo he won't mind it."
"Is Mr. Faversham staying on some time?"
"I canno' say, my lord, I'm sure," was the cautious reply. "But they do
say 'at he's not to tak' a journey for a while yet."
Tatham's curiosity was hot within him, but his very dislike of Melrose
restrained him from indulging it. He followed Dixon through the gallery
in silence.
There was no one in the new sitting-room. But outside on some newly laid
grass, Tatham perceived the invalid on a deck chair, with a table holding
books and cigarettes beside him.
Dixon had departed. Faversham offered cigarettes.
"Thank you," said Tatham, "I have my own."
And he produced his case with a smile, handing it to Faversham.
"A drink?"
Tatham declined again. As he sat there smoking, his hat on the back of
his head, and his ruddy, good-humoured face beaming on his companion, it
did not occur to Faversham that Tatham was thereby refusing the "salt" of
an enemy.
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