“For me, did you say?” said Repton, taking a letter from the servant, who had just entered the room.
“Yes, sir; and the groom says there's an answer expected.”
“The devil take it, I 've forgotten my spectacles. Froode, just tell me what's this about, and who it comes from.”
“It's Miss Martin's hand,” said Froode, breaking the seal and running over the contents. “Oh, I perceive,” said he; “they're afraid you have taken French leave of them at Cro' Martin, and she has driven into town to carry you back again.”
“That comes of my leaving word at the little post-office to forward my letters to Dublin if not asked for to-morrow. Take a pen, Froode, and write a couple of lines for me; say that a very urgent call—a professional call—will detain me here to-day, but that if not back by dinner-time—Captain Magennis thinks it not likely,” added he, turning towards him as he sat, with a very equivocal expression, half grin, half sneer, upon his features—“that I 'll be with them at breakfast next morning,” resumed Repton, boldly. “Make some excuse for my not answering the note myself,—whatever occurs to you. And so, sir,” said he, turning to Magennis, “your friend's name is Massingbred. Any relation to Colonel Moore Massingbred?”
“His son,—his only son, I believe.”
“How strange! I remember the father in the 'House'—I mean the Irish House—five-and-thirty years ago; he was always on the Government benches. It was of him Parsons wrote those doggerel lines,—
'A man without a heart or head,
Who seldom thought, who never read,
A witty word who never said,
One at whose board none ever fed,
Such is the Colonel M—g—b—d.'
He could n't call him a coward, though; for when they went out—which they did—Massingbred's manner on the ground was admirable.”
“Will that do?” said Froode, showing a few lines he had hastily jotted down.