“I consider myself a public benefactor,” he said, laughingly, “in giving men the opportunity of seeing that great genius of the age. Perhaps I have been mistaken over Sir Ronald. Send him cards; he will be sure to come.”
But, to his surprise, among all the letters of acceptance was a note from Sir Ronald, short and cold, declining, with thanks, the invitation, but giving no reason why.
Lord Lorriston handed it to his wife. They were at breakfast, and Lady Hermione, usually silent and grave, was with them.
“Sir Ronald declines, you see. What can be the matter with him? I have known him ever since he was a child, and he chooses to treat me with distant, scant courtesy. I cannot understand it.”
Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to him.
“Hermione,” he said, “have you given Sir Ronald any cause for his strange conduct?”
She blushed crimson, and turned her face, lest he should read something she did not wish him to see.
“I do not know that I have given him any cause of offense,” she replied.
Lord Lorriston looked earnestly at his daughter, then said no more.
“I am very sorry,” said Lady Hermione. “There is no one I like better than Sir Ronald.”