“Three cheers for his majesty's speech,” cried Salisbury.
These comments were hailed by a hearty laugh, mingled with clapping of hands, and an effort on the part of a few to raise a cheer. Hamilton joined in the laugh, though he had been so intent upon his lecture that at first he hardly comprehended the joke.
“Your majesty's been studying rhetoric since we had the pleasure of a speech,” remarked Reginald, when a little lull had succeeded to the uproarious mirth. “Mercury himself couldn't have done better.”
“Considering that the speeches of Edward the Great usually savor of Spartan brevity,” said Smith, “we couldn't have hoped for such a masterpiece.”
“You don't understand his most gracious majesty,” said Frank; “depend upon it he's a veritable cameleon.”
At this juncture, Louis, whose eyes had a sad habit of wandering when they should be otherwise employed, caught sight of Ferrers, and, starting up, he welcomed him with the utmost heartiness.
Hamilton looked round and colored furiously, but before Ferrers had time to make any answers to Louis' rapid questions, he rose, and, stepping forward, held out his hand—
“How are you, Ferrers?” he said, in a cheerful tone, “I neither saw nor heard you come in just now. You have not been here long, have you?”
Ferrers grasped Hamilton's hand and looked in his face, astonished and overcome with gratitude for this unexpected welcome. The silence of the few minutes before was resumed, and every eye was riveted on Hamilton, who, perceiving from the tight grasp on his hand and the crimsoned countenance of Ferrers, his utter inability to speak, and being anxious to remove the insupportable feeling of awkwardness under which he felt sure he labored, continued, without waiting for an answer—
“You are very late this half. We have expected you every day.”