“We shall soon see, for it is always better in these cases to incur the rudeness of interruption than the meanness of espionage;” and so saying, Lord Kilgoff opened the door and entered. Although in so doing the noise he made might easily have attracted notice, the chess-players, either deep in their preoccupation, or habituated to the uproar of the drawing-room, paid no attention, so that it was only as he exclaimed “Lady Kilgoff!” that both started, and beheld him, as, pale with passion, he stood supporting himself on the back of a chair.
“Pray don't stir, sir; be seated, I beg,” said he, addressing Cashel, in a voice that shook with anger; “my interruption of your game was pure accident.”
“No apologies, my Lord; we are both but indifferent players,” said Cashel, smiling, but yet very far from at ease.
“Your seclusion at least bespeaks the interest you feel in the game. Mr. Linton and I can vouch—” (Here his Lordship turned to call his witness; but he had left the court, or, more properly speaking, had never entered it.)
“Linton here?” said Lady Kilgoff, in a voice which, though scarce a whisper, was actually thrilling in the intensity of its meaning.
“I hope, sir, when you have lived somewhat more in the world, you will learn that the first duty of a host is not to compromise a guest.”
“I am most willing to be taught by your Lordship's better knowledge; but if I am to benefit by the lesson in the present case, it must be more clearly expressed,” said Cashel, calmly.
“As for you, madam,” said Lord Kilgoff, “I cannot compliment you on the progress you have made in acquiring the habits and instincts of 'your order.'”