“Well, I can't say I did. I hate work,—at least that kind of work. Besides, one doesn't like to come out 'stupid' in these kind of things, and so I merely said, 'I 'd think of it—very kind of her,' and so on.”
“Did it never occur to you all this while,” began her Ladyship; and then suddenly correcting herself, she stopped short, and said, “By the way, Mr. Scanlan is waiting for his answer. Ring the bell, and let him come in.”
Perhaps it was the imperfect recollection of that eminent individual,—perhaps the altered circumstances in which she now saw him, and possibly some actual changes in the man himself,—but really Lady Dorothea almost started with surprise as he entered the room, dressed in a dark pelisse, richly braided and frogged, an embroidered travelling-cap in his hand, and an incipient moustache on his upper lip,—all evidencing how rapidly he had turned his foreign experiences to advantage. There was, too, in his address a certain confident assurance that told how quickly the habits of the “Table d'hôte” had impressed him, and how instantaneously his nature had imbibed the vulgar ease of the “Continent.”
“You have just arrived, Mr. Scanlan?” said her Ladyship, haughtily, and not a little provoked at the shake-hand salutation her son had accorded him.
“Yes, my Lady, this instant, and such a journey as we 've had! No water on the Rhine for the steamers; and then, when we took to the land, a perfect deluge of rain, that nearly swept us away. At Eisleben, or some such name, we had an upset.”
“What day did you leave Ireland?” asked she, in utter indifference as to the casualty.
“Tuesday fortnight last, my Lady. I was detained two days in Dublin making searches—”
“Have you brought us any letters, sir?”
“One from Miss Mary, my Lady, and another from Mr. Repton—very pressing he said it was. I hope Mr. Martin is better? Your Ladyship's last—”
“Not much improvement,” said she, stiffly, while her thin lips were compressed with an expression that might mean pride or sorrow, or both.