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She had, however, never yet looked at one. If
anything came up to the house, leases, deeds, other papers, she would
say: "Tynn, see to it," or "Tynn, take it over to Mr. Lionel Verner, and
ask what's to be done." Lionel never refused to say.
She was sitting back in Mr. Verner's old chair, now, filling it a great
deal better than he used to do. Lionel took her hand cordially. Every
time he saw her he thought her looking bigger and bigger. However much
she may have grieved at the time for her son John's death, it had not
taken away either her flesh or her high colour. Nothing would have
troubled Mrs. Verner permanently, unless it had been the depriving her
of her meals. Now John was gone, she cared for nothing else in life.
"It's kind of you to come, Lionel," said she. "I want to talk to you.
What will you have?--some wine?"
"Not anything," replied Lionel. "Tynn said you wished to see me for
something particular."
"And so I do. You must take the management of the estate until Fred's at
home."
The words grated on his ear, and his brow knit itself into lines.


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