CHAPTER III.
‘This is a crash!’ said Coningsby, with a grave rather than agitated countenance, to Sidonia, as his friend came up to greet him, without, however, any expression of condolence.
‘This time next year you will not think so,’ said Sidonia.
Coningsby shrugged his shoulders.
‘The principal annoyance of this sort of miscarriage,’ said Sidonia, ‘is the condolence of the gentle world. I think we may now depart. I am going home to dine. Come, and discuss your position. For the present we will not speak of it.’ So saying, Sidonia good-naturedly got Coningsby out of the room.
They walked together to Sidonia’s house in Carlton Gardens, neither of them making the slightest allusion to the catastrophe; Sidonia inquiring where he had been, what he had been doing, since they last met, and himself conversing in his usual vein, though with a little more feeling in his manner than was his custom. When they had arrived there, Sidonia ordered their dinner instantly, and during the interval between the command and its appearance, he called Coningsby’s attention to an old German painting he had just received, its brilliant colouring and quaint costumes.
‘Eat, and an appetite will come,’ said Sidonia, when he observed Coningsby somewhat reluctant. ‘Take some of that Chablis: it will put you right; you will find it delicious.’
In this way some twenty minutes passed; their meal was over, and they were alone together.