"I was with my father," Rachel said, in a tone in which there was a tinge of unconscious surprise at what his tone had conveyed. "And, Francis, he looks so dreadfully ill!" "Does he?" said Rendel, concerned. "I am sorry." "He looks really broken down," she said, "and oh, so much older. I am sure it has been bad for him being alone all this time. I ought not to have stayed away so long." "Well, it has not been very long," said Rendel with a natural feeling that two weeks had not been an unreasonable extension of their wedding tour. "He looks as if he had felt it so," she answered. "But at any rate, I have persuaded him to come to dinner with us to-night; I am sure it will be good for him." "To-night?" said Rendel, again with a lurking surprise that for this first night their privacy should not have been respected. "Yes," said Rachel. "You don't mind, do you?" "Oh, of course not," he replied, again stifling a misgiving. "You see," said Rachel, "I thought it might amuse him, and be a change for him, and then you might play a game of chess with him after dinner, perhaps." "Of course, of course," Rendel answered. But the misgiving remained. When, however, Sir William appeared, Rendel's heart almost smote him as Rachel's had done, he seemed so curiously broken down and dispirited. They talked of their Scotch experiences, they spoke a little of the affairs of the day, but, as Rendel knew of old, this was a dangerous topic, which, hitherto, he had succeeded either in avoiding altogether or in treating with a studied moderation which might so far as possible prevent Sir William's susceptibilities from being offended. Rachel sat with them after dinner while they smoked, then they all went upstairs. "Now then, father dear, where would you like to be?" she said, looking round the room for the most comfortable chair. "Here, this looks a very special corner," and she drew forward an armchair that certainly was in a most delightful place, looking as if it were destined for the master of the house, or, at any rate, the most privileged person in it, a comfortable armchair, with the slanting back that a man loves, and by it a table with a lamp at exactly the right height. "There," she said, pushing her father gently into it, "isn't that a comfortable corner?" "Very," Sir William said, looking up at her with a smile. It truly was a delight to be tended and fussed over again. "And now you must have a table in front of you," she said, looking round. "Let me see--Frank, which shall the chess-table be? Is there a folding table? Yes, of course there is--that little one that we bought at Guildford. That one!"--and she clapped her hands with childish delight as she pointed to it. Rendel brought forward the little table and opened it. "Oh, that is exactly the thing," she cried. "See, father, it will just hold the chess-board. Now then, this is where it shall always stand--your own table, and your own chair by it." CHAPTER IX