Scarcely had M’Kinlay finished the reading of this letter, than a servant presented him with a small note, sealed with a very large impress of the Wardle arms, and bearing a conspicuous W. W. on the outer corner. Its contents ran thus:
“My dear Mr. M’Kinlay,—Will you allow me to profit by the fortunate accident of your presence in these regions to bespeak the honour and pleasure of your company at a tête-à-tête dinner with me to-day? My carriage will await your orders; and if perfectly in accordance with your convenience, I would beg that they may be to take you over here by an early hour—say four o’clock—as I am desirous of obtaining the benefit of your advice.
“I am very sincerely yours,
“Within Wardle.”
“How provoking!” cried Mr. M’Kinlay; “and I meant to have caught the night-mail at Wrexham.”
Now Mr. M’Kinlay was not either provoked or disappointed. It had never been his intention to have left the Cottage till the day after; and as to a dinner invitation to Dalradern, and with “the contingent remainder” of a consultation, it was in every respect the direct opposite of all that is provoking. Here he was alone. None heard, him as he said these words. This hypocrisy was not addressed to any surrounders. It was the soliloquy of a man who liked self-flattery, and, strange as it may seem, there are scores of people who mix these sweet little draughts for themselves and toss them off in secresy, like solitary drinkers, and then go out into the world refreshed and stimulated by their dram.
“I cannot take his agency, if that’s what he is at,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, as he stood with his back to the fire and fingered the seals of his watch; “I am overworked already—sorely overworked. Clients, now-a-days, I find, have got the habit of employing their lawyers in a variety of ways quite foreign to their callings.” This was a hit at Sir Gervais for his request to take Ada abroad. “A practice highly to be condemned, and, in fact, to be put down. It is not dignified; and I doubt if even it be profitable,”—his tone was now strong and severe. “A fine old place, Dalradern,” muttered he, as his eyes fell upon a little engraving of the castle at the top of the note—such vignettes were rarer at that day than at the present—“I think, really, I will give myself a holiday and dine with him. I thought him a bit of a fop—an old fop, too—when I met him here; but he may ‘cut up’ better under his own roof.”
“Rickards,” said he, as that bland personage entered to remove the breakfast-things, “I am not going to dine here to-day.”
“Lor, Sir! You an’t a going so soon?”
“No. To-morrow, perhaps—indeed, I should say to-morrow certainly; but to-day I must dine at Dalradern.”