Grey. I did not tell you
that your aunt wrote me, she will not be here until the afternoon train
on the 9th. Ah! here is Mr. Grey."
John was aware of a neatly built, slight man in middle life, clad in a
suit of dark grey. He came down the stairs in a leisurely way. "Not much
of a Grey!" thought Rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, which
was sallow, or what the English once described as olivaster, the eyes
small and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame the
thin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smiling
face.
John went across the hall to receive him, saying, "I am John Penhallow,
sir. I am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day."
"It is all right--all right. Rather chilly ride. Less moisture outside
and more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present,
if I may take the liberty."
Seeing that the host did not understand him, Rivers said promptly, "I
think, John, Mr. Grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer him
some of your uncle's rye."
"Of course," said John, who had not had the dimmest idea what the
Maryland gentleman meant.
Mr. Grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand,
"Peach-flavoured, sir. Very good, does credit to Penhallow's taste.
Pages:
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170