“Thanks; I think I’ll go upstairs at once,” I remarked.
“All right! Here’s James; he’ll show you your room. One servant between three of us now. Good old James! I say, Morton, no swallow-tails, you know.”
I nodded and followed the man, who was waiting in the doorway, to my room.
After my bare-floored, low-ceilinged attic at the farm, the apartment into which I was ushered seemed a very temple of luxury. There was a soft carpet upon the floor, many easy chairs, an Oriental divan, mirrors, and solid, handsomely carved furniture. Leading out of it on one side was a bath-room and on the other a small, cosy sitting-room, or study.
“Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?” inquired the man, after he had poured out my hot water and set out the contents of my portmanteau.
I shook my head and dismissed him. After a very brief toilet I hastened downstairs.
The dinner was remarkably good and I was very hungry; but I found time to notice two things. The first was that Cecil drank a great deal more wine than at his age was good for him; and the second, that de Cartienne, who drank very little himself, concealed that fact as far as he was able and passed the bottle continually to Cecil. This did not much surprise me, for I had already formed my own opinion of de Cartienne.
After dinner the man who waited upon us brought in some coffee and withdrew. Cecil, whose cheeks were a little flushed, and whose eyes were sparkling with more than ordinary brightness, rose and stretched himself.
“I say, Leonard,” he exclaimed, “let’s adjourn to your room and have a hand at cards! Shall we?”
de Cartienne shrugged his shoulders, but did not offer to move.