He put up his feet on a chair, and rested his magnificent muscles after his walk, and filled another pipe, in thorough contentment with himself.  No interference to dread from Anne, no more awkward questions (on the terms they were on now) to come from Arnold.  He looked back at the quarrel on the heath with a certain complacency—­he did his friend justice; though they had disagreed.  “Who would have thought the fellow had so much pluck in him!” he said to himself as he struck the match and lit his second pipe.

An hour more wore on; and Sir Patrick was the next person who returned.

He was thoughtful, but in no sense depressed.  Judging by appearances, his errand to Craig Fernie had certainly not ended in disappointment.  The old gentleman hummed his favorite little Scotch air—­rather absently, perhaps—­and took his pinch of snuff from the knob of his ivory cane much as usual.  He went to the library bell and summoned a servant.

“Any body been here for me?”—­“No, Sir Patrick.”—­“No letters?”—­“No, Sir Patrick.”—­“Very well.  Come up stairs to my room, and help me on with my dressing-gown.”  The man helped him to his dressing-gown and slippers “Is Miss Lundie at home?”—­“No, Sir Patrick.  They’re all away with my lady on an excursion.”—­“Very good.  Get me a cup of coffee; and wake me half an hour before dinner, in case I take a nap.”  The servant went out.  Sir Patrick stretched himself on the sofa.  “Ay! ay! a little aching in the back, and a certain stiffness in the legs.  I dare say the pony feels just as I do.  Age, I suppose, in both cases?  Well! well! well! let’s try and be young at heart.  ‘The rest’ (as Pope says) ’is leather and prunella.’” He returned resignedly to his little Scotch air.  The servant came in with the coffee.  And then the room was quiet, except for the low humming of insects and the gentle rustling of the creepers at the window.  For five minutes or so Sir Patrick sipped his coffee, and meditated—­by no means in the character of a man who was depressed by any recent disappointment.  In five minutes more he was asleep.

A little later, and the party returned from the ruins.

With the one exception of their lady-leader, the whole expedition was depressed—­Smith and Jones, in particular, being quite speechless.  Lady Lundie alone still met feudal antiquities with a cheerful front.  She had cheated the man who showed the ruins of his shilling, and she was thoroughly well satisfied with herself.  Her voice was flute-like in its melody, and the celebrated “smile” had never been in better order.  “Deeply interesting!” said her ladyship, descending from the carriage with ponderous grace, and addressing herself to Geoffrey, lounging under the portico of the house.  “You have had a loss, Mr. Delamayn.  The next time you go out for a walk, give your hostess a word of warning, and you won’t repent it.”  Blanche (looking very weary and anxious) questioned the servant, the moment she got in, about Arnold and her uncle.  Sir Patrick was invisible up stairs.  Mr. Brinkworth had not come back.  It wanted only twenty minutes of dinner-time; and full evening-dress was insisted on at Windygates.  Blanche, nevertheless, still lingered in the hall in the hope of seeing Arnold before she went up stairs.  The hope was realized.  As the clock struck the quarter he came in.  And he, too, was out of spirits like the rest!