“I declare,” said he, as they took their places, “this repays one for illness. No, Lucy,—opposite me, my dear. Yes, Tom, of course; that is your place,—your old place;” and he smiled benignly as he said it. “Is there not a place too many, Lucy?”
“Yes, grandpapa. It was for Mrs. Sewell, but she sent me a line to say she had promised Lady Lendrick to dine with her.”
The old Chief's eyes met Fossbrooke's, and in the glances they exchanged there was much meaning.
“I cannot eat, Sir Brook, till we have had a glass of wine together. Beattie may look as reproachfully as he likes, but it shall be a bumper. This old room has great traditions,” he went on. “Curran and Avonmore and Parsons, and others scarce their inferiors, held their tournaments here.”
“I have my doubts if they had a happier party round the board than we have to-night,” said Haire.
“We only want Tom,” said Dr. Lendrick. “If we had poor Tom with us, it would be perfect.”
“I think I know of another too,” whispered Beattie in Lucy's ear. “Don't you?”
“What soft nonsense is Beattie saying, Lucy? It has made you blush,” said the Chief. “It was all my fault, child, to have placed you in such bad company. I ought to have had you at my side here; but I wanted to look at you.”
Leaving them thus in happy pleasantry and enjoyment, let us turn for a moment to a very different scene,—to a drawing-room in Merrion Square, where at that same hour Lady Lendrick and Mrs. Sewell sat in close conference.
Mrs. Sewell had related the whole story of the intended duel, and its finale, and was now explaining to her mother-in-law how impossible it would be for her to continue any longer to live under the Chief Baron's roof, if even—which she deemed unlikely—he would still desire it.