“Hullo! you early bird, what are you doing in this part of the house?”
“Faix, I believe I’ve lost me way. I wanted to find you, and—all the other people.”
“At any rate you’ve found me. I hope you are rested?”
“Yes, thank you. And where are the rest of them?”
“Scattered about. Some are playing golf, some are in bed. I’ve been interviewing the steward.” Then, as he ushered her through a doorway, “Would you like me to show you the house?”
“Yes, indeed; I would love it.”
To introduce Joseline to the home of her forefathers was a task after Lord Mulgrave’s own heart; he was a man of cultured tastes and a well-known collector. He had a fine show of old arms, old ivories, old cloisonné, some exquisite French cabinets, and the finest snuff-boxes in England. By degrees he piloted Joseline through a suite of reception-rooms, and showed her many rare and costly objects among his heirlooms and his treasures; he was eloquent over his relics of the Armada, his Sèvres cups, “Mary and William” tankards, and was conscious of a sharp spasm of disappointment, when he found that the object that claimed his companion’s admiration and awe was the stuffed brown bear, which held a cigar-tray in the billiard-room! In short, as far as knowledge and appreciation of art went, Joseline might be a child of six. In the red saloon, a room panelled with damask and pictures, she came to a halt before a fine painting of the Madonna and Child, which Lord Mulgrave had picked up at a curiosity-shop in Pisa; it was said to be a Raphael—at any rate, it was of his school.
Joseline gazed for some time, and then crossed herself devoutly.
“Oh, it is real beautiful,” she remarked at last—“a deal better than the one in Glenveigh Chapel. I wish they had the likes of it. An’ wouldn’t Father Daly be the proud man!” She paused, coloured, and exclaimed, “Oh, I was forgettin’.”
“Forgetting what?” inquired her father.