Lord Langerdale shook his head doubtfully.
“I am sorry to hear you talk so, Eugène; but of one thing you may always be sure—Elsie and I will never be your judges. If you feel that it will reopen old wounds, stop away; but if not, why, come and see us. You have a young friend with you,” he added, turning slightly towards me and speaking a little more earnestly than the occasion seemed to require.
The man whom he called Eugène shook his head.
“I am not so fortunate,” he said stiffly. “I can claim no more than what on the Continent we call a ‘table acquaintance’ with this young gentleman.”
It might have been my fancy, but it seemed to me that Lord Langerdale looked distinctly disappointed. He bowed courteously to me, however, shook hands with his friend and rejoined his wife. My new acquaintance resumed his former position, and, with it, his old nonchalant manner.
“Your pardon,” he said lightly, “for this long digression. And now tell me, mon ami, shall we spend the evening together? You are a stranger in London, you say; I am not,” he added drily. “Come, shall I be your cicerone?”
I really had nothing else to do, so I assented at once.
“Good! Let us finish the bottle to a pleasant evening. But, ah! I forgot. We must be introduced. The English custom demands it, even though we introduce ourselves. Your name is?”
“Morton,” I answered—“Philip Morton. I haven’t a card.”
“Good! Then, Mr. Philip Morton, permit me the honour of introducing to you—myself. I am called de Cartienne—the Count Eugène de Cartienne—but I do not use the title in this country.”