“That is quite the case, Mr. Cutbill,” broke in Nelly; “and we know, besides, that, if you had anything harsh or severe to say to us, it is not likely you 'd take such a time as this to say it.”
“You do me proud, ma'am,” said Cutbill, who was not quite sure whether he was complimented or reprimanded.
“Do, please, Augustus; I beg of you, do,” whispered Nelly in her brother's ear.
“You've already missed your train for us, Mr. Cutbill,” said Augustus; “will you add another sacrifice and come and eat a very humble dinner with us at six o'clock?”
“Will I? I rayther think I will,” cried he, joyfully. “Now that the crisis is over, I may as well tell you I 've been angling for that invitation for the last half-hour, saying every minute to myself, 'Now it's coming,' or 'No, it ain't.' Twice you were on the brink of it, Bramleigh, and you drifted away again, and at last I began to think I 'd be driven to my lonely cutlet at the 'Leopold's Arms.' You said six; so I 'll just finish a couple of letters for the post, and be here sharp. Good-bye. Many thanks for the invite, though it was pretty long a-coming.” And with this he waved an adieu and departed.
CHAPTER XXXVI. AN EVENING WITH CUTBILL
When Nelly retired after dinner on that day, leaving Mr. Cutbill to the enjoyment of his wine—an indulgence she well knew he would not willingly forego—that worthy individual drew one chair to his side to support his arm, and resting his legs on another, exclaimed, “Now, this is what I call cosy. There 's a pleasant light, a nice bit of view out of that window, and as good a bottle of St. Julien as a man may desire.”
“I wish I could offer you something better,” began Augustus, but Cutbill stopped him at once, saying,—
“Taking the time of the year into account, there 's nothing better! It's not the season for a Burgundy or even a full-bodied claret. Shall I tell you, Bramleigh, that you gave me a better dinner to-day than I got at your great house,—the Bishop's Folly?”