"Dear old boy!" he muttered to himself. "It's not surprising my father never forgot him. I wonder why the mater regards him with so deadly a hatred, though?"
At lunch Mr. Graydon announced that Sir Anthony was going home for Christmas. There was a shrill expostulation from Sylvia, and even a mild protest from Mary, but Pamela said nothing. Perhaps it was not news to Pamela.
"You will not be here for the skating," said Sylvia aggrievedly; "that is, if there's going to be any. And I've promised them at the Rectory that you'd recite at their penny reading and give away the presents at the Christmas-tree, besides managing the magic lantern. And, oh!"—the magnitude of the misfortune coming full upon her—"you're not surely going to miss the Vandaleur dinner?"
"No, Miss Sylvia, I shall be here for it certainly. I wouldn't miss it for anything; but I object to your engagements for me with the Rectory people. I'd rather be shot than recite, and—the other things are beyond me," laughing.
"Never mind, then," said the young lady airily. "Lord Glengall will do just as well. I shall like to see him distributing the articles. Besides, he will please the people better than a 'baronite,' and be of the rale ould blood, too."
"Sylvia!" said her father, with a rebuke in his voice.
"Never mind, papa dear. Sir Anthony understands all about his being only a 'baronite.' Bridget told him the other day that if the master had his rights 'tisn't teaching a 'Sir' he'd be."
"So she did," said Sir Anthony.
Mr. Graydon laughed.
"Ah, well, my boy! you mustn't tell your mother what odd people you've found among the wild Irish—will you?"