Sir Thomas did not say whether he personally had ever won any, nor did Percy give testimony to the value of generous diet by the enumeration of any athletic feats of his own. A little shrill laugh again came from the other end of the table, but Sir Thomas did not hear it.
“Look at those three young fellows who went out—no offence to you, Mr. Osborne,” he continued. “Why, there wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on any of their bones, and that means no stamina. They’d shut up like a pocket-knife if it came to a tussle, and I doubt if their bones are much more than grizzle with the messes they eat, and that not enough of them. No, give me a lad who eats his steak and drinks his bottle of wine, and I’ll tell you whom to back in business or across country.”
“Well, there’s sense in a steak to my thinking,” said Mr. Osborne, “and to be sure our fathers ate their beef and drank their beer or their port more free than the young fellows do now. But I’d be sorry to put my money against Claude if it came to a run or a cricket match. He’s a wiry young fellow, though he’s not such a hand at his dinner as is Percy.”
The cackle from the end of the table grew louder, but no voice followed. Alfred was one of those to whom his own sense of humour is sufficient in itself. Without a word he got up and shuffled, still wearing his overshoes, out of the door.
The quartette played in the long gallery and Claude, knowing that music to his family meant nothing except a tune which, as Mrs. Osborne said, you carry away with you, had steered a very happy course, in the selection of it, so as to satisfy the impulses of filial piety and yet give pleasure to those who like Dora, and, it may be added, himself, did not want so much to carry tunes away, but to listen to music. Thus a selection from the “Mikado,” admirably boiled down for strings, put everybody in a good humour, and Sir Thomas to sleep. Later on a similar selection from “Patience” made Mrs. Osborne again beat time with her fan without disturbing Sir Thomas, and for the rest the exquisite inevitable melodies of Bach and Scarlotti filled an hour’s programme. And when it was over Claude turned to Dora, with whom he was sitting in a window seat, and his eyes glowed like hot coals.
“Let’s come out,” he said, “and stroll down to the lake. We can’t stop indoors after that. Bach should always be played out of doors.”
That was finely and justly felt; the next moment came a jar.
“They charged the mater a hundred and fifty guineas for coming down,” he said, “but it’s cheap, I shall tell her, for real good music. There’s no price you can put upon a thing like that.”
Again with Dora the check, the jar, lasted but an infinitesimal time, as she turned aside to pick up her fan which had dropped, and as she met his eye again she felt that divine discontent which so vastly transcended in her opinion all other happiness. And it appeared that he, too, was in tune with that.
“Come out, my darling,” he said. “Let’s get away from these people just for a bit, a five minutes. I don’t want any more music, even though it was more Bach. And I don’t want any supper, do you? They’re going to have supper now.”