Among them all
Mr. Granger could remember no one likely to be a friend of George Fairfax.
It might possibly be one of the curates; but it seemed scarcely probable
that Mr. Fairfax would come two hundred and fifty miles to abide three days
with a curate. Nor was it the season of partridges. There was no shooting
to attract Mr. Fairfax to the neighbourhood of Holborough. There was trout,
certainly, to be found in abundance in brooks, and a river within a walk of
the town; and Mr. Fairfax might be passionately fond of fly-fishing.
"You will come in and have some luncheon, of course," Mr. Granger said,
when they came to the gateway, where George Fairfax pulled up, and began to
wish them good-bye. Not to ask the man to eat and drink would have seemed
to him the most unnatural thing in the world.
"Thanks. I think I had better deny myself that pleasure," Mr. Fairfax said
doubtfully. "The day is getting on, and--and I have an engagement for the
afternoon." ("Trout, no doubt," thought Mr. Granger.) "I have seen you,
that is the grand point. I could not leave Yorkshire without paying my
respects to you and Mrs. Granger."
"Do you leave so soon?"
"To-morrow, I think."
"A hurried journey for trout," thought Mr. Granger.
He insisted upon the visitor coming in to luncheon. George Fairfax was not
very obdurate. It was so sweet to be near the woman he loved, and he had
not the habit of refusing himself the things that were sweet to him.
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