“WHO WAS HE?”
Colin and Eva walked down the hill together, sympathetic friends and
humble dependents standing aside to let them pass.
They talked in low voices, decorously; but the sense of relief from
tension which follows on a funeral, shewed in their brightening faces,
as they turned with undisguised pleasure toward the beautiful house
which was now their own possession.
“Colin, I know why that man’s face seemed familiar to me. You remember I
whispered to you when we noticed him in the church, that I was certain I
had seen him before?”
“Well? Had you?”
“No. But—it’s very curious. Just as we turned from the grave—you saw how
he stood gazing down at the coffins?—he looked up, and his eyes met
mine. Then I remembered. He is extraordinarily like the photographs of
my father.”
“Could he be a relation?”
“Not that I know of. My father was an only child, and I never heard of
cousins.”
“Well, we can tell Thomas to find out who he is. I say, dear! Won’t tea
be nice! Let’s have it in the Oak Room. I shall make that my
smoking-room, if you have no objection.”