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"And I should imagine that the necessary transfers and and things would be much better put in hand at once. Delay seems to me quite unnecessary." She paused for Mr. Rigg's opinion quite a friendly opinion, of course, without price. "Pardon me," said that lawyer, driven into a corner at last, "but are you consulting me on behalf of the late Squire's executor, Mr. Glynde, or on your own account?"
She longed, she yearned to hear the deeper, graver tone of voice which had been used once or twice towards her once or twice in moments of unusual confidence. The Reverend Thomas Glynde was silent, and the voice that they both heard was Dora's, singing as she came downstairs towards them.
The door was open, so that the lawyer's voice carried well down the passage. "Yes, sir." "I will see Mrs. Agar now." And Mrs. Agar was shown in, all bustling with excitement. "Mr. Rigg," she said, with some dignity, "has Mr. Glynde been here?" The lawyer beamed again literally all over his parchment-coloured face, except the eyes, which remained grave.
Among the Sussex masters who settled in Glamorganshire for the purpose of carrying on the iron manufacture, were Walter Burrell, the friend of John Ray, the naturalist, one of the Morleys of Glynde in Sussex, the Relfes from Mayfield, and the Cheneys from Crawley.
He suddenly found that his advice was no longer law. There are plenty of us ready to confess that we cannot play billiards or whist or polo, but no man likes it to be known that he cannot play the game of life. Mr. Glynde did not like this subtle feeling of incompetency. He prided himself on being a man of the world, and frequently applied the vague term to himself.
"When, my dear madam?" he asked, as he brought forward a chair. "Well, lately since my son's death." The lawyer opened a large diary, and proceeded to trace back each day with his finger. It promised to be a question of time, this ascertaining whether Mr. Glynde had called within the last week. It was marvellous how well this man of deeds knew his clients. Mrs.
Glynde, who had strong views upon butlers in general and Tims in particular said Tims being so sure of his place that he did not always trouble to know it. "Library, sir," replied Tims in an appropriately sepulchral voice. The Rector went to the library without waiting to be announced.
It was the devout practice that all the Rectory servants should go to evening service, while Mrs. Glynde, or Dora, or both, remained at home to take care of the house. On this particular evening Mrs. Glynde proposed that Dora should stay with her, and what her mother proposed Dora usually acceded to.
It is a Grecian temple built about 1765 by the then Bishop of Durham, Dr. Trevor, and here the Bishop was buried. There are few more charming groups of cottages in Sussex than this beautiful village. Glynde Place, the seat of a former Speaker of the House of Commons, boasts the largest dairy in Sussex if not in England; between 700 and 800 pounds of butter are made here daily.
Glynde began to show symptoms of a patch of pink in either cheek. At last Jem rose awkwardly in the midst of a sally from Dora, who seemed afraid to stop speaking. "Must be going," he said; and he shook hands with the Rector. Mrs. Glynde, with nervous deliberation, kissed him and squeezed his hand jerkily.
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