The house was very still all the morning, and then there was another subdued meal. Meals are a great thing to fall back upon when young persons of healthful appetite, not broken down by grief, feel themselves compelled to decorous appearance of mourning. By this time Oswald and Edward both felt that not to eat was an absurd way of doing honour to their dead father, and accordingly they had an excellent luncheon; though their mother still ‘did not feel able,’ her maid reported, to come down. After this the two young men went out together to take a walk. This, too, was a kind of solemn Sabbatical exercise, which they had not taken in the same way since they were boys at school together. When they met any acquaintance, one of them would bow formally, or stretch out a hand to be shaken, passing on, too grave for talk, while the other paused to explain the ‘bad news’ they had received. When it was a friend of Oswald’s, Edward did this, and when it was Edward’s friend, Oswald did it. This little innocent solemn pantomime was so natural and instinctive that it impressed everyone more or less, and themselves most of all. They began to feel a certain importance in their position, enjoying the sympathy, the kind and pitying looks of all they met as they strolled along slowly arm-in-arm. They had not been so much united, or felt so strong a connection with each other, for years. Then they began to discuss in subdued tones the probable issues. ‘Will it change our position?’ Edward asked. ‘I think not, unless to better it,’ said Oswald. ‘I don’t think you need go to India now unless you like.’ He had just said this, when they were both addressed by someone coming up behind them, as hasty and business-like as they were languid and solemn. ‘I say, can you tell me whereabouts the India Office is?’ said the new comer. ‘Good-morning. I shouldn’t have disturbed you but that I remembered you were going to India too. I’m in for my last Exam., that is, I shall be directly, and I’ve got something to do at the India Office; but the fact is, I don’t know where to go.’ It was Edward who directed him, Oswald standing by holding his brother’s arm. Roger Burchell was very brisk, looking better than usual in the fresh spring sunshine, and Oswald’s eye was caught by his face, which was like someone he had seen recently--he could not remember where--the ruddy, mellow, warmly-toned complexion, brown eyes, and dusky gold of the hair. Who was it? Roger, being out of his depth in London, was glad to see faces he knew, even though he loved them little; and then he had heard that Cara was to return to the Hill, and felt that he had triumphed, and feared them no more. ‘I hope your neighbours are well?’ he said. ‘They are coming back, I hear, to the country. I suppose they don’t care for London after being brought up in a country place? I should not myself.’ ‘Mr. Beresford is going abroad,’ said Edward, coldly.