The duke inquired of Lothair how many he could dine in his hall.
“We must dine more than two hundred on Monday,” he replied.
“And now, I should think, we have only a third of that number,” said his grace. “It will be a tight fit.”
“Mr. Putney Giles has had a drawing made, and every seat apportioned. We shall just do it.”
“I fear you will have too busy a day on Monday,” said the cardinal, who had caught up the conversation.
“Well, you know, sir, I do not sit up smoking with Lord St. Aldegonde.”
After dinner, Lady Corisande seated herself by Mrs. Campian. “You must have thought me very rude,” she said, “to have left you so suddenly at tea, when the bishop looked into the room; but he wanted me on a matter of the greatest importance. I must, therefore, ask your pardon. You naturally would not feel on this matter as we all do, or most of us do,” she added with some hesitation; “being—pardon me—a foreigner, and the question involving national as well as religious feelings;” and then, somewhat hurriedly, but with emotion, she detailed to Theodora all that had occurred respecting the early celebration on Monday, and the opposition it was receiving from the cardinal and his friends. It was a relief to Lady Corisande thus to express all her feelings on a subject on which she had been brooding the whole day.
“You mistake,” said Theodora, quietly, when Lady Corisande had finished. “I am much interested in what you tell me. I should deplore our friend falling under the influence of the Romish priesthood.”
“And yet there is danger of it,” said Lady Corisande, “more than danger,” she added in a low but earnest voice. “You do not know what a conspiracy is going on, and has been going on for months, to effect this end. I tremble.”
“That is the last thing I ever do,” said Theodora, with a faint, sweet smile. “I hope, but I never tremble.”