She half stopped as she reached me.
"I won't allow you to flirt with Lady Olive," she whispered, with a bewitching little moue; then added out loud: "Come to us as soon as ever you can, Mr. Arbuthnot. We want to commence dancing in good time."
I bowed, and letting fall the curtain, turned back to the table. Sir Francis motioned me to take the vacant place by his side, and filled my glass himself from the decanter which stood at his elbow.
"Hugh, my boy," he said, slowly—he had got into the habit of calling me Hugh lately—"I'm upset!"
I looked into his handsome old face, and saw that it was clouded over, and there was a heavy frown on his brow.
"I'm sorry, sir," I ventured to say.
"Thanks. I knew you would be. I don't suppose a man ought to be sorry because his son's coming to see him, ought he?"
It depended upon the son, I thought.
"Ay, it depends upon the son, of course," he said, thoughtfully, stroking his long grey moustache. "There is nothing against Maud's father, nothing at all. He's nothing like that young cub of his down there," he went on, jerking his head to where Francis Devereux was talking very loudly and drinking a good deal of champagne. "And yet I don't want him here. I can't bear to see him in the place. It's a damned funny thing."
"If you feel like that, sir," I said, keeping my eyes fixed upon the tablecloth, "depend upon it, it's your son's fault. He's done something to deserve it."