“And what did you talk of, in Heaven’s name!” cried she, impatiently. “Was it town gossip and scandal?”
For a moment Mr. M’Kinlay was almost scared by her impetuosity, but he rallied, and assured her that Sir Within spoke with the warmest interest of Sir Gervais, and alluded in the most cordial way to their old relations of friendship, and with what pleasure he would renew them. “He charged me with innumerable kind messages, and almost his last word was a hope that he should be fortunate enough to meet you again.”
“And through all this no mention of the ‘beauty’—I mean, of Miss Luttrell?”
“Not a word.”
“How strange—how incomprehensible!” said she, pausing, and seeming to reflect.
“Remember, my dear Miss Courtenay, it was a very hurried meeting altogether. We dined at half-past six, and at ten I was on the railroad.”
“Did Sir Within strike you as looking so very ill—so much cut upas Mr. Grenfell phrases it?”
“I thought him looking remarkably well; for a man of his age, wonderfully well. He must be—let me see—he must be—not very far from eighty.1’
“Not within ten years of it, Sir, I’m confident,” broke she in, almost fiercely. “There is no error more common than to overrate the age of distinguished men. The public infers that familiarity with their name implies long acquaintance, and it is a most absurd mistake.”
Now, Mr. M’Kinlay thoroughly understood that he was typified under that same public, who only knew great men by report, and misrepresented them through ignorance. He was, however, so strong in “his brief,” that he would not submit to be put down; he had taken pains to look over a record of Sir Within’s services, and had seen that he was attached to the Russian embassy fifty-two years ago.