"Sit down just opposite me, and look at me. I am going to write. The editor of the _Cynosure_ begs for twenty lines--no more; twenty lines--fifty pounds! Now, Nellie, inspire me, and you shall have a new hat out of it. No, look at me!"
Nellie sat down and gazed at him, obediently.
"Two pound ten a line; not bad for a young 'un," he pursued. "They say Byron wrote on gin and water. I write on your eyes, Nellie--much better."
"You're not writing at all--only talking nonsense."
"Look here, Dale, why don't you keep the Doctor----" began Philip.
"Oh, hang the Doctor! I'd just got an idea. Look at me, Nellie!"
Philip shrugged his shoulders, and Dr. Roberts dropped out of discussion.
The twenty lines were written, though they were never considered one of his masterpieces, then Dale rose with a sigh of relief.
"Now for lunch, and then I'm going to return Mr. Delane's call."
"I thought we were to ride," said Nellie disappointedly.
"Mrs. Delane has not called, has she?" inquired Philip, as though for information.
"Of course I shan't go, Dale. You must go alone."
"What a nuisance! I shall have to walk. I daren't trust myself to that animal alone."
After luncheon he started, walking by the same way by which Mr. Delane had come.
He reached the lodge of the Grange; a courtesying child held open the gate, and he passed along under the immemorial elms, returning a cheery good-day to the gardeners, who paused in their work to touch their hats with friendly deference. The deference was wrong, of course, but the friendliness pleased him, and even the deference seemed somehow in keeping with the elms and with the sturdy old red-brick mansion, with its coat of arms and defiant Norman motto over the principal door. Littlehill was a pleasant house, but it had none of the ancient dignity of Dirkham, and Dale's quick brain was suddenly struck with a new understanding of how such places bred the men they did. He had had a fancy for a stay in the country; it would amuse him, he thought, to study country life; that was the meaning of his coming to Littlehill. Well, Dirkham summed up one side of country life, and he would be glad to study it.
Mr. Delane was not at home--he had gone to Petty Sessions; and Dale, with regret, for he wanted to see the inside of the house, left his name--as usual he had forgotten to bring a card--and turned away. As he turned, a pony carriage drew up and a girl jumped out. Dale drew back to let her pass, raising his hat. The servant said a word to her, and when he had gone some ten or fifteen yards, he heard his name called.