Amateur theatricals were much less common in those days than at present, and were held as the ne plus ultra of gaiety. Moreover, the Lady Louisa Bullock was noted for fashionable extravagance of the semi-reputable style; and there would have been vexation enough at Griffith’s being her guest, even had not the performance taken place on the very day of the funeral of Ellen’s grandfather, so as to be an outrage on decorum.
At the same time, there came a packet franked by a not very satisfactory peer, brother to Lady Louisa. My father threw a note over to Clarence, and proceeded to read a very properly expressed letter full of apologies and condolences for the Fordyces.
‘He could not have got the letter in time’ was my father’s comment. ‘When did you forward the letter? How was it addressed? Clarence, I say, didn’t you hear?’
Clarence lifted up his face from his letter, so much flushed that my mother broke in—‘What’s the matter? A mistake in the post-town would account for the delay. Has he had the letter?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Not in time—eh?’
‘I’m afraid,’ and he faltered, ‘he did.’
‘Did he or did he not?’ demanded my mother.
‘What does he say?’ exclaimed my father.
‘Sir’ (always an unpropitious beginning for poor Clarence), ‘I should prefer not showing you.’