'I am sorry to see you so unwell, Sir.'
'Thank you, I'm on the mend. Sit down. Take a glass of wine—claret?'
Felix accepted, wondering if his father would regard it as an act of pardon.
'And you?'
'No thank you, Sir.'
'No wine? You are the one that has been so ill? No objection to melon, eh?'
And Lancelot, whose illness had left a strong hankering for fruit, was considerably appeased by the first cut into the cool buff flesh.
'Is he the next brother to you?'
'Oh no. There are three brothers and three sisters between us.'
'And what are they doing? There were one or two with Tom Underwood. Didn't the young fellow offend him and turn out idle?'