"Caroline, be quiet; you are impayable.Are you really serious in what you say about Mr. Joyce?"
"Perfectly--why not? I had some talk with him in the library the other day, and found him most agreeable."
"Well, then, I will send and say we expect him; will that satisfy you?
"No, certainly not! Seriously, Margaret, for one minute. You know that I was only in fun, and that it cannot matter one atom to me whether this young man is asked to join your party or not. Only, if you do ask him, don't send. You know the sort of message which the footman would deliver, no matter what formula had been intrusted to him; and I should be very sorry to think that Mr. Joyce, or any other gentleman, should be caused a mortification through any folly of mine."
"Perhaps you think I ought to go to him and offer him a verbal invitation?"
"Certainly, if you want him at all--I mean, if you intend asking him to dinner. You'll be sure to find him in the library. Now, I'm dying to get rid of this soaked habit and this clinging skirt! So I'm off to dress."
And Lady Caroline Mansergh gave her sister-in-law a short nod, and left the room.
Left alone, Lady Hetherington took a few minutes to recover herself. Her sister-in-law Caroline had always been a spoiled child, and accustomed to have her own way in the old home, in her own house when she married Mr. Mansergh--the richest, idlest, kindest old gentleman that ever slept in St. Stephen's first and in Glasnevin Cemetery scarcely more soundly afterwards--and generally everywhere since she had lost him. But she had been always remarkable for particularly sound sense, and had a manner of treating objectionably pushing people which succeeded in keeping them at a distance better even than the frigid hauteur which Lady Hetherington indulged in. The countess knew this, and, acknowledging it in her inmost heart, felt that she could make no great mistake in acceding to her sister-in-law's wishes. Moreover, she reflected, after all it was a mere small country-house dinner that day; there was no one expected about whose opinion she particularly cared; and as the man was domiciled in the house, was useful to Lord Hetherington, and was presentable, it was only right to show him some civility.
So, after leaving the drawing-room on her way to dress for dinner, Lady Hetherington crossed the hall to the library, and at the far end of the room saw Mr. Joyce at work, under a shaded lamp. She went straight up to him, and was somewhat amused at finding that he, either not hearing her entrance, or imagining that it was merely some servant with a message, never raised his head, but continued grinding away at his manuscript.
"Mr. Joyce!" said her ladyship, slightly bending forward.