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Lord Lossiemouth pulled himself together, and came to her assistance. Together they held back the silence at arm's length. Yes, he was staying in the neighbourhood at Lostford in fact. House property near the river. Liable to floods. Did he mention the word floods? Yes. Floods at certain seasons of the year. Time to take measures now before the autumn, etc.
There was also a short, wavering, nondescript note with nothing in particular in it from the girl herself. The mother had evidently made her write. A very venomous expression settled on Lord Lossiemouth's heavy face. He suddenly took up a Bradshaw and looked out the trains for Lostford. Tard oublie qui bien aime.
A certain wisdom could never be his, for he saw no alternatives. He never balanced two courses of action against each other. "There were no two ways about it," he said to his godfather, the Bishop of Lostford, respecting a decision where there were several alternatives, which he had endeavoured to set before Michael with impartiality. But Michael saw only one course, and took it.
He listened to himself telling the servant to pay the fly and to send word by it to his dog-cart to return home. Of course he had gone to Lostford in the dog-cart. He had forgotten that. Then he heard his own voice ordering a whiskey and soda to be brought to him in the library. And he walked there. The afternoon post had arrived with the newspapers and he took up a paper.
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