The voice was interrupted and drowned by the crash of the pianoforte, struck with remorseless force, and another voice, the voice of a woman, cried, rising even above the crash:
"Now, one of your own, Dale."
"I think I'd better go in," thought Mr. Delane, and he knocked loudly at the door.
He was bidden to enter by the former of the two voices, and, going in, found himself in a billiard room. Five or six people sat round the wall on settees, each holding a cue, with which they were still gently strumming on the floor. A stout, elderly woman was at the piano, and a young man sat cross-legged in the middle of the billiard-table, with a book in one hand and a cigar in the other. There was a good deal of tobacco smoke in the room, and Mr. Delane did not at first distinguish the faces of the company.
The young man on the table uncoiled himself with great agility, jumped down, and came forward to meet the newcomer with outstretched hands. As he outstretched them, he dropped the book and the cigar to the ground on either side of him.
"Ah, here you are! Delightful of you to come!" he cried. "Now, let me guess you!"
"Mr. Bannister?—Have I the pleasure?"
"Yes, yes. Now let's see—don't tell me your name."
He drew back a step, surveyed Mr. Delane's portly figure, his dignified carriage, his plain solid watch-chain, his square-toed strong boots.
"The Squire!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Delane, isn't it?"