Tarrant nodded.  At the same moment they heard a sound that startled them.

‘That’s a knock at the door,’ said Nancy, rising as if to escape.

’So it is.  Banging with a stick.  Let him bang.  It must be a stranger, or he’d respect the oak.’

They sat listening.  The knock sounded again, loud and prolonged.  Tarrant joked about it; but a third time came the summons.

‘I may as well go and see who it is.’

‘Oh—­you won’t let any one—­’

‘Of course not.  Sit quietly.’

He went out, closing the room-door behind him, and opened the heavy door which should have ensured his privacy.  For five minutes he was absent, then returned with a face portending news.

’It was Vawdrey.  He knew my habit of sporting the oak, and wouldn’t go away till he had made sure.  My grandmother is dying.  They telegraphed to Vawdrey in the City, and he came here at once to tell me.  I must go.  Perhaps I shall be too late.’

‘What did he think of your keeping him outside?’

’I made some sort of excuse.  He’s a good-natured fellow; it didn’t matter.  Stay a little after I’m gone; stay as long as you like, In fact.  You can pull to the inner door when you go.’

‘What did the telegram say?’

‘Mrs. Tarrant sinking.  Come immediately.’  Of course we expected it.  It’s raining hard:  wait and see if it stops; you must take care of yourself.’

For this, Nancy was not slow in exhibiting her gratitude, which served as mask of the pleasure she could not decently betray.  When her husband had hastened off, she sat for a few minutes in thought; then, alone here for the first time, she began to walk about the rooms, and to make herself more intimately acquainted with their contents.

CHAPTER 7

Whilst she was thus occupied, darkness came on.  She did not care to light the lamp, so made herself ready, and stole forth.

The rain had ceased.  Walking alone at night was a pleasure in which she now indulged herself pretty frequently; at such times Mary Woodruff believed her in the company of Miss.  Morgan.  The marked sobriety of her demeanour since Mr. Lord’s death, and the friendliness, even the affection, she evinced in their common life at home, had set Mary’s mind at ease concerning her.  No murmur at her father’s will had escaped Nancy, in this respect very unlike her brother, who, when grief was forgotten, declared himself ill-used; she seemed perfectly content with the conditions laid upon her, and the sincerity of her mourning could not be doubted.  Anxious to conciliate the girl in every honest way, Mary behaved to her with the same external respect as ever, and without a hint of express guardianship.  The two were on excellent terms.  It seemed likely that before long they would have the house to themselves; already Horace had spoken of taking lodgings in a part of London more congruous with the social aspirations encouraged by his aunt, Mrs. Damerel.