Volume One – Chapter Nine.
The Slave of Fortune
“I say, look here! You know, Litton, I’m the last man on earth to complain; but you know, damn it, you don’t do your duty by me.”
“You don’t give me credit for what I do do, Elbraham, ’pon my soul you don’t!” said the gentleman addressed – a rather fashionably-dressed, stylish young fellow of eight-and-twenty or thirty, whose hair was closely cropped in the latest style, his well-worn clothes scrupulously brushed, and his hands particularly white.
As he answered he screwed his glass very tightly into his eyes and gazed at the first speaker – a little, pudgy, high-shouldered man, with a very short neck and a very round head, slightly bald. He was carefully dressed, and a marked point in his attire was the utter absence of everything in the shape of jewellery or ornament. His fat white hands did not display so much as a ring; and though a slight prominence in his vest proclaimed the presence of a watch, it was attached to his person by a guard of the finest black silk. His countenance, however, did not match with the refinement of his attire, for it betrayed high living and sensual indulgence. There was an unpleasant look, too, about his eyes; and if to the least cultured person he had asserted in the most emphatic manner that he was a gentleman, it would not have been believed.
But, all the same, he was a man of mark, for this was Samuel Elbraham, the financier, the man who was reputed to have made hundreds of thousands by his connection with the Khedive. Men in society and on ’Change joked about Elbraham, and said that he was a child of Israel, who went down into Egypt and spoiled the Egyptians for everybody’s buying but his own. They called him Potiphar, too, and made it a subject of jest that there was no Potiphar’s wife; but they also said that it did not matter, for these were days when people had arisen who knew not Joseph.
Then they laughed, and wondered whether Potiphar of old went in for a theatre, and supplied rare subsidies of hard cash to a manager, and was very fond of taking parties of friends to his private-box to witness the last new extravaganza, after the said friends had dined with him and drunk his champagne.
Somehow or other, it was the friends who ate his dinners and drank his champagne that made the most jokes about him; but though these witticisms, real or would be, came round to him at times, they troubled him very little.
The conversation above commenced took place in Mr Elbraham’s library, at the riverside residence at Twickenham, the handsomely-furnished place that he, the celebrated converted Israelite, had taken of Lord Washingtower, when a long course of ill-luck on the turf had ended in nearly placing his lordship under the turf, for rumour said that his terrible illness was the result of an attempt to rid himself of his woes by a strong dose of a patent sedative medicine.
As Mr Elbraham spoke he hitched up his shoulders, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down in front of the books he never read.
“Not give you credit for what you do?” he retorted. “Why, what do you mean?”
“Don’t talk to me like that, Elbraham, please. I’m not your servant.”
“Hang it all, then, what the devil are you? I pay you regular wages.”
“No. Stop, please. I accept a regulated stipend from you, Elbraham.”
“Oh, very good! let’s have it like that, then, Mr Rarthur Litton. I took you up, same as I did your bills, when you were so hard hit that you didn’t know where to go for a fiver. You made certain proposals and promises to me, and, I ask you, what have you done?”
“More than you give me credit for,” was the reply, rather sullenly made.
“You dine with me, you sleep here, and make this place your home whenever you like; and when I look for your help, as I expected, I find that your name is in the papers as the secretary to some confounded Small Fish Protection Society, or as managing director of the Anti-Soap and Soda Laundry Company.”
“I’m sure I’ve done my duty by you, Mr Elbraham,” said the young man hotly. “If you want to quarrel and get rid of me, say so.”
I don’t want to quarrel, and I don’t mean to quarrel, Mr Rarthur Litton. I made a bargain with you, and I mean to keep you to it. You boasted to me of your high connections and your entrée into good society, and undertook to introduce me into some of the best families, so that I might take the position that my wealth enables me to hold. Now, then, please, have I paid up like a man?
“Yes; you have,” was the sulky response.
“And you’ve taken jolly good care to draw more than was your due. Now, what have you done?”
“Well, I taught you to dress like something different to a cad.”
“Humph! You did knock off my studs and rings and things.”
“And I’ve dined with you till I’ve got you to be fit to eat your meals in a Christianlike manner.”
“Look here, Mr Rarthur, sir,” said Elbraham hotly, “is that meant as a sneer?”
“No; of course not.”
“Oh!”
“Then I wanted time to get these things in proper course. Well, come now, I did get you the invitation to Lady Littletown’s.”
“Yes; to a beggarly dinner with an old woman at Hampton. Are you going to dine there?”
“I? No! I come in afterwards at the ‘at home’.”
“Ah! I wanted to talk to you about that affair to-night. You promised without my consent.”
“Of course I did. It was a great chance.”
“A great chance?”
“Of course. You don’t know how big a thing it is to be.”
“Bah! stuff! rubbish! A feed given to all the old pensioned tabbies at Hampton Court.”
“Don’t you make any mistake, sir. There’ll be some big people there.”
“Big! Why, I could buy up dozens of them.”
“Their incomes, perhaps, Mr Elbraham, but not their position and their entrée to good society. Sir, you could not even buy mine.”
“But I could your bills,” said the other, with a grin.
“And hold them over me, you wretched little cad!” said the young man to himself. Then aloud:
“I can assure you, Mr Elbraham, that this dinner will give you the step you wanted. Lady Littletown stands very high in society. The Duchess of Redesby will be there, and Lord Henry Moorpark.”
“What! old Apricot – old yellow and ripe!” said Elbraham with a chuckle.
“Lord Henry Moorpark is a thorough specimen of an English nobleman, Mr Elbraham,” said the secretary stiffly; “and I consider that if the only thing I had done was to gain you an introduction to him, I should have earned all the wages, as you call them, that you have condescended to pay me.”
“Yes, of course – yes, to be sure. There, there, don’t be so hot and peppery, Litton. I’m a bit put out this morning. By the way, would you have the brougham and pair or one horse?”
“Pair, decidedly,” said the young man.
“You’ll not go with me?”
“No; I come afterwards. You shall bring me back if you will.”
“Yes; of course. I’ll put some cigars in the pocket. Would you wear the diamond studs?”
“No. Not a ring, even. Go in black, and hardly speak a word. Do nothing but look the millionaire. The simpler you dress, my dear sir, the richer they will think you.”
“My dear Litton, you’re a treasure – damme, that you are, sir! I say, look here: you don’t happen to want five, or ten, or twenty this morning, do you?”
Mr Arthur Litton did happen to want twenty, not five or ten; and a couple of crisp notes were thrust into his hand.
“Well, I suppose it’s all right, Litton. I shall look out for you there, then; but it’s a deuce of a way to go.”
“It’s worth going to, if it were double the distance, I can assure you. You have money; you want position.”
“All right, then; that’s settled. I’m going to the City now. Are you going in?”
“No, thanks; I shall sit down and do a little writing.”
“Very good; you’ll find the cigars on the shelf.”
“What, those cigars?” He spoke with a slight emphasis on the “those.” “No, thanks; they have too strong a flavour of a hundred-pound bill.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forty pounds in cash, forty in old pale East India sherry, and twenty in weeds.”
“You’re an artful one, you are, Litton – ’pon my soul you are. Deuced artful,” said Mr Elbraham, with a curious puckering about the corners of his eyes, intended to do duty for a smile. “But that reminds me, Huish’s bill falls due to-morrow – hundred pounds; mustn’t forget that. Here, pull out your case.”
He unlocked a little cabinet with a tiny key, and opened two or three drawers full of cigars, each with a paper band round its middle.
“Which is it to be?”
The young man smiled, and filled his case, selecting one as well for present smoking. The cabinet was reclosed; there was an interchange of nods; Elbraham went off to the station; Litton sat down and wrote a letter, after which he made a little study of a time-table, hurried off, and, catching a train, was soon after on his way to Hampton, where he was just in time to catch Lady Littletown entering her carriage for a drive.
“Ah, mon cher Arthur!” she exclaimed; “you nearly missed me. There, come in, and I’ll take you part of your way back.”
Litton mounted beside her ladyship, and took his seat as invited.
“Drive slowly,” cried her ladyship; and as the handsome barouche, with its well-appointed pair of bays, went gaily along the pleasant riverside road towards the Palace, Lady Littletown turned her sharp dark eyes searchingly upon her companion.
She was one of those elderly ladies upon whom the effect of time seems to be that of making them sharper and possessed of a keener interest in worldly matters, and one in whose aquiline features there was ample promise of her proving to be a most implacable enemy if offended. Too cautious to allow her heart to be stirred by instincts of an amatory nature, she had found consolation in looking after the matrimonial business of others; and hence her interest in her companion of the hour.
“Well?” she said sharply; “what news?”
“I’ve fixed him for certain. He would have backed out, but for a bit of a chat this morning.”
“Then the nasty, scaly, slippery gold-fish will really come?”
“Yes.”
“Not disappoint me as he did Judy Millet?”
“You may depend upon him this time.”
“Good boy, good boy. Now, look here, Arthur: you are behaving very well over this, and if the affair comes off as I wish, and you behave very nicely, I’ll see next what I can do by way of finding you a wife with a snug fortune; only you must not be too particular about her looks.”
“I leave myself in your ladyship’s hands.”
“There, now you may get down. I’m going to make two or three calls in the Palace.”
“One moment, Lady Littletown,” said Litton eagerly; “I’m just starting a society for the preservation of ancient trees and old – ”
“Now, mon cher, that will do,” said the old lady decidedly. “You know I never give money or – ”
“I only ask for your name as a patroness or supporter.”
“And you will not have it; so now be a good boy, and go. I’ve got your name down upon my tablets, Arthur, so wait your time. Stop!”
The horses were checked; the footman descended and opened the door, rattling the steps loudly; Arthur Litton leaped out, raised his hat; Lady Littletown kissed the tips of her gloved fingers to him, and the carriage passed on.
“I wonder whether she will,” said the young man, as he walked towards the station. “However, we shall see.”
Volume One – Chapter Ten.
A Dinner for an End
“My income, my dears, just suffices for my wants,” said Lady Littletown; “and I have never anything to spare for charities and that sort of thing.”
So said her ladyship to her aristocratic friends living in pinched circumstances in the private apartments; and it may or may not have been intended for a hint not to try and borrow money.
“One would like to be charitable and to give largely, but what with one’s household expenses and the horses and carriages, and my month in town in the height of the season, I really sometimes find myself obliged to ask his late lordship’s agent for a few hundreds in advance of the time when the rents are due. But then, you see, one owes so much to one’s position.”
The Honourable Misses Dymcox said one certainly did; Lady Anna Maria Morton, who had been longing for a new silk evening dress for three years, said the same; and, thoroughly feeling it to be a fact, Lady Littletown tried to pay honourably what she owed to society by rigidly living up to the last penny of her fairly handsome income in the pleasant mansion near Hampton Court.
She gave about four dinner-parties in the course of the year, and afterwards received.
This was one of her special parties for a special purpose, and when the last of her fifteen guests had arrived and been looked at through her great gold eyeglass held with the left hand, while the tips of the fingers of the right were given in assurance of her being “so delighted,” her ladyship proceeded to marshal her forces for the procession to the dining-room.
“Here’s what it is to be a lone widow!” she exclaimed playfully. “Moorpark, might I ask you to take the foot of the table? – Miss Marie Riversley.”
Lord Henry had murmured to himself a good deal about being dragged down all the way from Saint James’s Square to Hampton just at a time when his heart told him that he ought to be married, and though terribly dissatisfied with the success which had attended his attentions to Gertrude Millet, his brain was full of her bright, refined features. He, however, now advanced, quite the handsome, stately gentleman, with a pleasant, benevolent look upon his thin face, and at once entered into conversation with the dark beauty to whom he had been introduced.
“Mr Elbraham,” continued Lady Littletown, in a confidential whisper, as she inspected him as if he were for sale, “would you oblige me? – Miss Dymcox’s niece.”
The reputed millionaire started, and a scowl began to dawn in his face, for the name Dymcox brought up the faces of the honourable sisters; but as he was led to dark, glowing, southern-faced Clotilde, the scowl reached no farther than its dawn, and the ruddy sun of his coarse round face rose out of the fog, and beamed its satisfaction upon the handsome girl.
“Oh, I say, Glen, what a shame!” whispered little Dick Millet to his chosen companion, who, consequent upon his being an officer and the friend of dear Lady Millet’s son, had been invited, like his major, to the feast.
Dick began grinding his white teeth in the corner, where he had been making eyes at Clotilde and Marie in turn, whichever looked in his direction; and for the moment he seemed as if he were going to tear either his curly hair or the dainty exotic from his button-hole.
“Hush! be quiet,” was the reply.
“Hurrah! viva!” whispered Dick again. “The Black Douglas is being tacked on to that old scrag.”
“That old scrag” was the Honourable Philippa Dymcox, and “the Black Douglas” Major Edward Malpas, who, probably from disappointment in connection with a late marriage, was contemplatively watching Clotilde; but his courtesy was perfect as he bent toward the Honourable Philippa.
“Now there’s that other old she-dragon, Glen,” whispered Dick. “Oh, I say, it’s too bad of the old woman! I won’t, that I won’t. I didn’t come here to be treated so, and if she says I’m to march in that dreadful skeleton I’ll be taken ill and make a bolt of it. I say, Marcus,” he continued, “my nose is going to bleed,” and as he spoke he took out his delicately-scented pocket-handkerchief.
“Captain Glen, will you take in the Honourable Isabella Dymcox?” said Lady Littletown, showing just a trifle of gold setting as she smiled.
Marcus Glen told the truth when he said he would be most happy, for he recognised in the lady of the old-fashioned lavender poplin one of the companions of Clotilde and Marie in their walk in the Palace gardens.
Dick Millet thrust his scented cambric back into the pocket of his silk-lined coat, and after a glance at the ladies, either of whom he longed to take in to dinner, he had a look round the room to see which would be the most eligible dinner-table companion of those that were left; but to his disgust he began to find that he was being left entirely in the cold, for the hostess, with all the skill of one who has well made her plans beforehand, was rapidly finishing her arrangements.
“It’s enough to make any man’s nose bleed, and compel him to bolt,” muttered the handsome little fellow, who had got himself up in the most irreproachable manner, having even been to town that afternoon on purpose to place himself in a hairdresser’s hands.
“Hang it all! am I nobody?”
It was hard work getting hold of the ends, but Dick managed to give a vicious twist to his delicate floss silk moustache, and he was contemplating a fresh appeal to his scented handkerchief and making the threatened bolt, as he termed it, with the cambric held to his nose, when Lady Littletown approached.
“Now, my dearest Richard,” she exclaimed, and her many years, the speck of gold near one top tooth, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and the suggestions of untruthfulness about her hair, all seemed to be softened down and seen through an eyeglass tinted à la rose, “I’m a very covetous person, and I always make a point, like the wicked old widow I am, of reserving the most beau chevalier for myself. Now you have to take me in, we two last; and you’ll be obliged to help me out of my difficulties if there is anything to carve.”
Dick coloured a little with pride:
“And we, too, must have a pleasant chat about mamma and the dear girls; and, oh, I am so glad you took to the army and are quartered down here. It will be so pleasant for me; but I shall, for mamma’s sake, watch all your doings. I am not going to have you turn out a roué like your wicked Major. Come along.”
So Dick took in her ladyship, feeling taller, and actually seeming to swell a little, as he found himself seated at his hostess’s right hand. Then, the places being found, every guest’s name neatly written on a porcelain ménu, Lord Henry, at the foot of the table, closed his eyes, bent forward, and in a low, reverent voice said grace, to which Mr Elbraham added a very audible “Amen!” and the dinner commenced.
Of course it was all by way of paying her dues to society that things were done so well, for certainly the dinner was as exquisite as the table itself, with its decorations of plate and glass, amidst which, half hidden in almost a redundancy of exotic flowers, was a thoroughly choice dessert. Richard Millet, who rather trembled in the midst of his pride, and had twice in imagination seen wings of chicken, as he dismembered a bird, flying in a cloud of brown sauce into people’s laps, was spared all trouble, for the viands were served à la Russe, and were perfect of their kind.
“I’m deuced glad I came,” thought Mr Elbraham, as the choice, well-iced wines reached him in turn, and after several rather awkward attempts at conversation with Clotilde he found himself getting on much better. For his companion, in spite of her delight at being present at such a party, and having been affectionately kissed by Lady Littletown, and called “My dearest child,” was disappointed because Captain Glen had not spoken to her, neither had he been chosen to take her in to dinner. But, then, he had looked at her – looked at her several times. He admired her. There was no doubt about that. His looks said so plainly; and, for her part, there was something very pleasant to her eyes in the well-built, manly fellow, with his easy, indifferent ways and his gentlemanly, chivalrous attention to her aunt; who, poor soul! was nervous, and fluttered with the unusual excitement.
“I don’t like him; he’s a dreadful creature,” said Clotilde to herself, as her companion grew more at home, and, after a glass or two of a very choice champagne of unusual potency, began to talk to her in a fashion somewhat suggestive of his style at a private supper at the Rantan or at Latellier’s, and ladies who were in the habit of performing show parts in public were present.
“I’m deuced glad I came. She’s a devilish handsome girl, and I like her,” thought Mr Elbraham, and during his next remark, of course inadvertently, his coat-sleeve touched Clotilde’s firm, white, well-rounded arm.
“And so you lead a very quiet, very retired life,” said Lord Henry to Marie, as, scarcely partaking of anything himself, he chivalrously devoted his attention to his companion, enjoying her evident delight and hearty young appetite, which as a rule was none too well satisfied.
She, too, had been, in the midst of her delight in her charming dress, the reflection of her handsome self in Lady Littletown’s mirror, that lady’s affectionate greeting, and the brilliant dinner-table, rather disappointed that she had not been taken in by Captain Glen, or that dark handsome Major, or even by the funny pretty little page style of officer; but by degrees that wore off, and she listened with real pleasure to Lord Henry’s words.
He was quite an elderly gentleman, but, then, he was a nobleman, with a truer feeling of admiration for the beautiful woman he had been called upon to escort. There was something delightfully new, too, in her ways. She was very different to the society young ladies he was accustomed to meet, all gush and strained style of conversation. Marie was as if fresh from a convent, and he was even amused with some of her naïve remarks.
The Honourable Misses Dymcox had given their nieces the most stringent instructions upon etiquette; above all, they were not to taste wine; but while Marie was answering a remark made by Lord Henry, one of the servants filled that faintly prismatic glass, like half a soap-bubble in its beauty, and from old habit Marie lifted the drinking vessel by her hand, tasted, found the clear sparkling wine delicious, and had sipped again and again.
The effect was trifling, but it did remove some of her diffidence, and she found herself chatting willingly enough to her cavalier.
“Oh yes; a very, very retired life. We spend most of our time in the schoolroom, and when we take walks it is in the gardens or in the park with our aunts, at times when none of the London people are down.”
“Have you been on the Continent?”
“Oh no,” replied Marie, “not since Mr Montaigne brought us over to the Palace?”
“May I ask who is Mr Montaigne?”
“He was a very old friend of poor mamma’s.”
“Poor mamma?” said Lord Henry inquiringly.
“Oh yes; poor mamma and papa died when we were very little girls, and we have been with our aunts ever since.”
Lord Henry sipped his wine, gazed sidewise at his beautiful companion, and sighed. He thought of Gertrude Millet, and let his eye rest from time to time upon her brother, vainly trying to trace a resemblance, and also that though Lady Millet had undoubtedly seemed pleased by his advances, Gertrude had been chilling, and Marie Dymcox was not.
Possibly, too, as the old man sighed, he thought that he had no time to lose now that he had been thinking that he would marry, and he sighed again as if in regret of something he had lost, something he might have had, but had been too careless or indifferent to win.
A close observer would have noticed that there were tears in his eyes just then. Lady Littletown was a close observer, and by the aid of her eyeglass she did notice it, and secretly hugged herself.
“But you go out a good deal – to parties, to concerts, or balls?”
“Oh no!” laughed Marie, and her white teeth showed beneath her coral lips, while Major Malpas, who was nearly opposite, looked at her intently from beneath his heavy eyelids, and softly stroked his moustache. “I was never at a party before.”
“And do you like it?” said Lord Henry, beaming upon her, as, with a secret kind of satisfaction, he quietly admired the animated countenance beside him.
“Oh yes, yes,” she said softly. “I can’t help liking it very much.”
“Well,” said Lord Henry, smiling in quite a pleased manner, “why should you help liking it?”
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully; “only we are always so quiet at the Palace, and aunts have often said that too much gaiety was bad.”
“Too much, my dear child. Yes, certainly; but a little is very pleasurable, and innocent, and good.”
Marie’s eyes, as they met his, said that they were delighted to hear it, and as she sat and let the quiet, chivalrous old gentleman draw her out, no one would have credited her with being one of the heroines of some of the schoolroom scenes in which poor little Ruth had been the victim.
Lord Henry Moorpark grew more and more thoughtful as he chatted on with his companion. There was something inexpressibly refreshing in Marie’s words and ways, and he, too, congratulated himself upon the dinner-party, which he had looked upon as a nuisance, and to which he had come solely out of respect for Lady Littletown, turning out so pleasurable and fresh.
He was not the only elderly guest who thoroughly enjoyed the dinner, for the Honourable Isabella Dymcox partook of her share of the courses in a state of, for her, unwonted flutter. In accordance with the plotting and planning that had been at work in the Palace coterie, she had come fully prepared to give a furtive observation to what was going on with Clotilde and Marie, the children who, with her sister, she was fain to confess had arrived at a marriageable age; but from the moment she had laid her tremulous hand upon Marcus Glen’s arm, and had been led by him to her seat, her nieces had been forgotten.
Certainly Glen had several times over exchanged glances with Clotilde, and taken notice of the fact that Elbraham was growing more and more familiar and loud; but all the same he had found ample time to devote himself with a good deal of assiduity to Miss Isabella, making her at first surprised and cold, soon after pleased and full of agreeable thoughts, and at last thoroughly gratified at the way in which her companion attended to her lightest wishes and conversed upon society at Hampton Court.
“I – I won’t be so foolish as so think he means anything,” said Miss Isabella to herself; “for he is quite young and manly-looking, almost handsome, while I am getting very old indeed, and all hope of that is past; but he is very nice and gentlemanly, and so very different to officers as a rule. I must say I like him very much.”
She showed, too, that she did as soon as the cold formal crust had been melted away, and Marcus was not slow to realise the fact.
He was perfectly honest, for he knew that the Honourable Isabella was the aunt of Clotilde, and being as impressionable as most young men of his age, he had felt to some extent the power of that lady’s eyes. Under the circumstances, as he had been thrown with the relative, he had thought it fair campaigning to make friends with her, and this he had done to such an extent that the attentions she had received, and a glass or two of wine, made the lady very communicative, and far happier than her sister, who found the dinner much less to her taste.
For Major Malpas was not best pleased at having to take her in, and he had confined himself to the most frigid civilities. He was perfectly gentlemanly, but as the dinner wore on he grew more polite, and by consequence the Honourable Philippa became icy in her manner, till at last she seemed to be frozen stiff.
“Humph!” he thought, “better have gone and sat with Renée Morrison. Yes,” he continued, staring hard at Dick, “your sister, my half-fledged cockerel.”
The other guests merely formed chorus to the principal singers in the little social opera, but they were wonderfully led by Lady Littletown, whose tongue formed her conductor’s baton, by which she swayed them with a practised ease.
She had a word in season for everyone where it was needful to keep up the balance of the parts, and wonderfully skilful was her way. She gave a great deal of her time to everybody, but little Richard Millet never missed any of her attentions. In a very short time she had quite won his confidence, and knew that Major Malpas was a regular plunger, that Captain Glen was the dearest and best fellow in the world, that he hadn’t any more vice in him than a child, that they were the dearest of friends, and that Marcus had only about two hundred and fifty a year besides his pay.
“I begin to like Hampton Court, Lady Littletown,” said the boy warmly, for the champagne had been frequent.
“I’m sure you’ll love the place when you begin to know us better. Of course you will come to all my ‘at homes?’”
“That I will,” exclaimed the delighted youth. “By the way, Lady Littletown, what lovely girls those Miss Dymcoxes are!”
“Yes, are they not?” replied Lady Littletown; “but oh, fie, fie, fie! This will not do. I will not listen to a single word. I’m not going to lend myself to any match-making. What would Lady Millet say?”
“But, really, Lady Littletown – ”
“Oh dear me, no; I will not listen. I know too well, sir, what you officers are – so wicked and reckless, and given to breaking ladies’ hearts. I think I shall absolutely forbid you even approaching them when you come up to the drawing-room. I would not for the world be the means of causing any heart diseases amongst my guests.”
“But surely, Lady Littletown, a fellow may admire at a distance?”
“Oh dear no,” said her ladyship playfully; “I think not. I’m afraid you are a very bad, dangerous man, and I shall have to withdraw my invitation.”
Dick Millet pleaded; the invitation was not withdrawn; and the little fellow was better satisfied with himself than he had felt for months.
“It’s an uncommonly well got-up affair, after all,” he thought; “but I wish the ladies would go now. I want to get the wine over, and go up to the drawing-room.”
To the little fellow’s satisfaction the long-drawn-out repast did come to an end, that cleverly-managed signal was given which acts electrically at a certain stage of a dinner; the ladies rose, and in place of one of the younger gentlemen opening the door, Lord Henry performed that duty, a genial but half-sad smile playing about his thin, closely-shaven lips, as Marie looked up in his face in passing. Then the last lady went out, and the gentlemen closed up to their coffee and wine.
Somehow or other, Marcus Glen found himself now near Lord Henry, and while a knot of listeners heard Mr Elbraham’s opinion upon the Eastern Question, especially with regard to the new Sultan and the position of Egypt, the young officer entered into a quiet discussion upon the history of the old Palace, and was surprised and pleased to find how much his companion knew of the past days of the old red-brick building, but above all at the genial, winning manner the old gentleman possessed.