“I don’t think I told you,” said Willy, “that they are removing the furniture to-day.”
“You don’t say so—to-day? And where is your father?”
“He is in London, at the ‘Metropole.’”
The young men walked on slowly in silence, and when they came to the lodge gate, standing wide open, and saw the curtainless windows and the flowerless greenhouses, Willy said: “It is very sad to see all the things you have known since you were a child sold by auction.”
“Oh, yes, it is. Look at the swards. Do they not look sad already? Those beautiful elms, under whose shade we have sat, will be cut down, and stucco work and glass porticoes take their places. Oh, it is very sad.”
“My father never had any feeling, he never cared for the place. Had I been in his place I should have invested my money in land and
