MR. DACRE returned home with an excellent appetite, and almost as keen a desire to renew his conversation with his guest; but dinner and the Duke were neither to be commanded. Miss Dacre also could not be found. No information could be obtained of them from any quarter. It was nearly seven o’clock, the hour of dinner. That meal, somewhat to Mr. Dacre’s regret, was postponed for half an hour, servants were sent out, and the bell was rung, but no tidings. Mr. Dacre was a little annoyed and more alarmed; he was also hungry, and at half-past seven he sat down to a solitary meal.
About a quarter-past eight a figure rapped at the dining-room window: it was the young Duke. The fat butler seemed astonished, not to say shocked, at this violation of etiquette; nevertheless, he slowly opened the window.
‘Anything the matter, George? Where is May?’
‘Nothing. We lost our way. That is all. May—Miss Dacre desired me to say, that she would not join us at dinner.’
‘I am sure, something has happened.’
‘I assure you, my dear sir, nothing, nothing at all the least unpleasant, but we took the wrong turning. All my fault.’
‘Shall I send for the soup?’
‘No. I am not hungry, I will take some wine.’ So saying, his Grace poured out a tumbler of claret.
‘Shall I take your Grace’s hat?’ asked the fat butler.
‘Dear me! have I my hat on?’