At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face.  He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him.

’That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble.  Here is a letter from Greyson.’  Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss.  ’Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state.’

‘You won’t go up to town again; will you, uncle?’

’I hardly know what to do.  No, I think not.  He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury.’

‘Who, Sir Louis?’

’Yes, Sir Louis.  Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room.’

‘What! to this house?’

‘What other home can he come to?’

‘Oh, uncle!  I hope not.  Pray, pray do not let him come here.’

‘I cannot prevent it, dear.  I cannot shut my door on him.’

They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence.  ’I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner,’ said he.  ’Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?’

’Message! no, I have no message; not especially:  give her my love, of course,’ she said listlessly.  And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy.  ’But, couldn’t I go to Boxall Hill again?  I should be so delighted.’

’What! to run away from Sir Louis?  No, dearest, we will have no more running away.  He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here.’

‘But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the twelfth,’ she said, blushing.

‘What!  Frank?’

‘Yes.  Beatrice said he was to be here on the twelfth.’

‘And would you run away from him too, Mary?’

‘I do not know:  I do not know what to do.’

’No; we will have no more running away:  I am sorry that you ever did so.  It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish.’

‘Uncle, I am not happy here.’  As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands.

’And would you be happier at Boxall Hill?  It is not the place that makes the happiness.’

’No, I know that; it is not the place.  I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here.’

’I also sometimes think that it would be better for us to take up our staves and walk away from Greshamsbury;—­leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here.  Should you like that, dearest?’