“Monsignore would not hold this language to me,” said Lady Lackington, haughtily.
“Very probably not, dearest; he spoke in confidence when he mentioned it to me.”
“I mean, that he would hesitate ere he forfeited any respect I entertain for his common-sense by the utterance of such wild absurdity. What is it, Turner?” asked she, suddenly, as her maid entered.
“Four packing-cases have just come, my Lady, with Mr. Spicer's respectful compliments, and that he will be here immediately,—he has only gone to change his dress.”
“Why don't he come at once? I don't care for his dress.”
“No, my Lady, of course not,” said Turner, and retired.
“I must say he has made haste,” said Lady Lackington, languidly. “It was only on the eighth or the ninth, I think, he left this, and as he had to get all my mourning things,—I had actually nothing,—and to go down to Lackington Court, and then to Wales, and after that to the Isle of Wight, what with lawyers and other tiresome people to talk to, he has really not done badly.”
“I hope he has brought the chalice,” sighed Lady Grace.
“I hope he has brought some tidings of my respectable brother-in-law,” said the Viscountess, in a tone that seemed to say where the really important question lay.
“And the caviare,—I trust he has not forgotten the caviare. It is the only thing Monsignore eats at breakfast in Advent.”