The dinner turned out to be as excellent as the lunch, and after doing the dishes we sat in front of the fire, Hank in his armchair, me in one of the wooden chairs. He lit his pipe and we shared a companionable silence for a while, until my curiosity began to start working.
“What was his—the son up at the manor house—name?”
Hank looked startled and a little affronted at first, but then he shrugged. “Henry,” he said, and his voice had a cracked sound. I registered this and felt bad I had brought up the subject.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He looked up again and frowned. “Why?”
“Well, to be driven to that—it’s pretty bad.”
He seemed to accept this, and nodded. Then, as if my statement slightly opened the doors of trust, he said, “I watched him grow up. There was something—bright about him, al
