“Her grace is at luncheon, my lord,” at length said the groom of the chamber—and Lothair was ushered into the gay, and festive, and cordial scene. The number of the self-invited guests alone saved him. His confusion was absolute, and the duchess remarked afterward that Lothair seemed to have regained all his shyness.
When Lothair had rallied and could survey the scene, he found he was sitting by his hostess; that the duke, not a luncheon man, was present, and, as it turned out afterward, for the pleasure of meeting Lothair. Bertram also was present, and several married daughters, and Lord Montairy, and Captain Mildmay, and one or two others; and next to Lady Corisande was the Duke of Brecon.
So far as Lothair was concerned, the luncheon was unsuccessful. His conversational powers deserted him. He answered in monosyllables, and never originated a remark. He was greatly relieved when they rose and returned to the gallery, in which they seemed all disposed to linger. The duke approached him, and, in his mood, he found it easier to talk to men than to women. Male conversation is of a coarser grain, and does not require so much play of thought and manner; discourse about Suez Canal, and Arab horses, and pipes, and pachas, can be carried on without any psychological effort, and, by degrees, banishes all sensibility. And yet he was rather dreamy, talked better than he listened, did not look his companion in the face, as the duke spoke, which was his custom, and his eye was wandering. Suddenly, Bertram having joined them, and speaking to his father, Lothair darted away and approached Lady Corisande, whom Lady Montairy had just quitted.
“As I may never have the opportunity again,” said Lothair, “let me thank you, Lady Corisande, for some kind thoughts which you deigned to bestow on me in my absence.”
His look was serious; his tone almost sad. Neither were in keeping with the scene and the apparent occasion; and Lady Corisande, not displeased, but troubled, murmured: “Since I last met you, I heard you had seen much and suffered much.”
“And that makes the kind thoughts of friends more precious,” said Lothair. “I have few; your brother is the chief, but even he never did me any kindness so great as when he told me that you had spoken of me with sympathy.”
“Bertram’s friends are mine,” said Lady Corisande; “but, otherwise, it would be impossible for us all not to feel an interest in—, one of whom we had seen so much,” she added, with some hesitation.
“Ah, Brentham!” said Lothair; “dear Brentham! Do you remember once saying to me that you hoped you should never leave Brentham?”
“Did I say so?” said Lady Corisande.
“I wish I had never left Brentham,” said Lothair; “it was the happiest time of my life. I had not then a sorrow or a care.”