Randal, with his face still averted, extended his hand. Mr. Egerton held it a moment, then dropping it, left the room. Randal turned as the door closed; and there was in his dark face a power of sinister passion, that justified all Harley’s warnings. His lips moved, but not audibly; then as if struck by a sudden thought, he followed Egerton into the hall.
“Sir,” said he, “I forgot to say, that on returning from Maida Hill, I took shelter from the rain under a covered passage, and there I met unexpectedly with your nephew, Frank Hazeldean.”
“Ah!” said Egerton, indifferently, “a fine young man; in the Guards. It is a pity that my brother has such antiquated political notions; he should put his son into parliament, and under my guidance; I could push him. Well, and what said Frank?”
“He invited me to call on him. I remember that you once rather cautioned me against too intimate an acquaintance with those who have not got their fortunes to make.”
“Because they are idle, and idleness is contagious. Right,—better not to be too intimate with a young Guardsman.”
“Then you would not have me call on him, sir? We were rather friends at Eton; and if I wholly reject his overtures, might he not think that you—”
“I!” interrupted Egerton. “Ah, true; my brother might think I bore him a grudge; absurd. Call then, and ask the young man here. Yet still, I do not advise intimacy.” Egerton turned into his dressing-room. “Sir,” said his valet, who was in waiting, “Mr. Levy is here,—he says by appointment; and Mr. Grinders is also just come from the country.”
“Tell Mr. Grinders to come in first,” said Egerton, seating himself. “You need not wait; I can dress without you. Tell Mr. Levy I will see him in five minutes.”
Mr. Grinders was steward to Audley Egerton.
Mr. Levy was a handsome man, who wore a camellia in his button-hole; drove, in his cabriolet, a high-stepping horse that had cost L200; was well known to young men of fashion, and considered by their fathers a very dangerous acquaintance.