The garden is your own, Mr. Raeburn; we must
none of us forget that; and because you give us liberty to walk
there we should be indeed ungracious if we so far presumed upon
your politeness as to interfere with the convenience of your
friends. But, on second thoughts," he added, "I believe that this
gentleman and I have met before. Mr. Hartley, I think. I regret
to observe that you have had a fall."
And he offered his hand.
A sort of maiden dignity and a desire to delay as long as possible
the necessity for explanation moved Harry to refuse this chance of
help, and to deny his own identity. He chose the tender mercies of
the gardener, who was at least unknown to him, rather than the
curiosity and perhaps the doubts of an acquaintance.
"I fear there is some mistake," said he. "My name is Thomlinson
and I am a friend of Mr. Raeburn's."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Rolles. "The likeness is amazing."
Mr. Raeburn, who had been upon thorns throughout this colloquy, now
felt it high time to bring it to a period.
"I wish you a pleasant saunter, sir," said he.
And with that he dragged Harry after him into the house, and then
into a chamber on the garden. His first care was to draw down the
blind, for Mr. Rolles still remained where they had left him, in an
attitude of perplexity and thought. Then he emptied the broken
bandbox on the table, and stood before the treasure, thus fully
displayed, with an expression of rapturous greed, and rubbing his
hands upon his thighs.
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