“Madam, in June last, under your Ladyship’s pleasure.”
“It scarcely is to my pleasure. Son Henry, cannot you allow this young gentlemen to visit his friends more often?”
“Under your leave, Madam, he can visit them every day if he will. I tarry him not.”
“Then how comes it, Mr Louvaine, that you have not waited on my Lady Lettice for four months?”
Aubrey mentally wished Mr Marshall in America, and himself anywhere but in Oxford House. There was no escape. The wise Countess added no unnecessary words to help him out, but having put her question in plain terms, quietly awaited his reply. He muttered something not very intelligible, in which “business” was the chiefly audible word.
“Methinks your duty to your mother and Lady Lettice should be your first business after God,” said the Countess gravely. “I pray you, Mr Louvaine, that you wait on her Ladyship to-morrow even. The Earl will give you leave.”
Aubrey bowed, and as the Countess took her departure, for she had merely paused in passing through the room, gave a vicious blow to the nearest billiard ball.
“You are in for it now, Louvaine!” said his next neighbour.
“Poor lad! will his gra’mmer beat him?” suggested another in mock compassion.
“He’s been stealing apples, and the parson has told of him,” added a third.