Foulkes, who had shown increasing agitation during this speech, now dropped his cards with a muffled “Mercy be good to us!”
Ratcliffe kicked him under the table, the while addressing his bland tones to his grandmother.
“Do not expect his lordship to-night, madam. I hear he has convened a party of his own.”
Sir John Farringdon, straining startled ears and eyes from the other table, caught Ratcliffe’s glance, and mouthed at him with dumb lips, “Gone?”—jerking heavenward with his thumb.
“Gone,” asserted Ratcliffe’s nod, while his thumb pointed grimly down.
Lady Chillingburgh turned her quick glance, her high pyramid of lace and white curls, in daunting enquiry toward Sir John. But her grandson, diabolically fluent, was once more ready with his irony:—
“Sir John is offended at having received no invitation.”
“’Tis very strange,” said Lady Chillingburgh. “My Lord Marsham is not wont to be discourteous.”
“’Twas such a sudden inspiration,” soothed Lionel.