“Leicester’s a lucky dog to have such a zealous advocate in that sweet cousin of his,” thought Lewis as he retraced his steps towards the card-room. “She is a great deal too good for that brute, Lord Bellefield; she had better have chosen Charles, if she must marry either brother, though he is scarcely her equal in mind or depth of character, and without that I don’t believe married life can ever progress as it should do.” On reaching the card-room he found it only tenanted by the whist players; and rightly imagining that his advice had so far restored Leicester’s spirits as to induce him again to return to the ball-room, he resumed his search for Walter, and at length discovered him in the ice-room, where, under the auspices of a pretty, interesting looking girl, the daughter of one of the tenantry, called in on the occasion to assist the female servants, he was regaling himself with unlimited cakes.
While Lewis was gently insinuating the possibility of his having had enough, two or three men, amongst whom was Lord Bellefield, lounged into the room and began eating ices at a table opposite that at which Lewis and Walter were stationed. One of the party, who was unacquainted with Lewis, apparently struck by his appearance, addressed Lord Bellefield in an undertone, evidently inquiring who the young tutor might be; the answer, though spoken in a low voice, was (whether designedly or not we will not say) perfectly audible to the person to whom it related.
“That? oh, some poor devil old Grant has picked up cheap as dry-nurse to his pet idiot; a kind of male bonne, as the French term it; a sort of upper servant, half valet, half tutor. You need not notice him.”
There was a degree of littleness in this speech which completely robbed it of its sting. It was such a mean attempt at an insult that Lewis saw it would be letting himself down even to feel angry about it; and merely allowing his lip to curl slightly with a contemptuous smile, he folded his arms and patiently awaited the conclusion of Walter’s repast. After Lord Bellefield and his friends had devoured as many ices as seemed good to them, they prepared to leave the room, and just as they passed the spot where Lewis stood, Lord Bellefield, in drawing out his handkerchief, accidentally dropped a glove. Not perceiving his loss, he was still walking on, when Lewis, after a moment’s hesitation, resolved to adhere to his determination of treating Lord Bellefield as he would any other man his superior in rank, and perhaps inwardly rejoiced at the opportunity of returning good for evil, or at least civility for insult, stooped and picked up the glove, then advancing a step or two, he presented it to its owner, saying—
“Excuse my interrupting your lordship, but you have dropped your glove.”
Now it so happened that the moment before Lewis had removed his own glove to render some assistance to Walter, and had not replaced it when he extended his hand to Lord Bellefield, who, without making any reply, signed to his French valet, then assisting in the champagne department, and when he approached, said—
“Tenez, Antoine! Take the glove from this gentleman, and bring me a clean pair.”
The insolence of his look and the affected drawl in which he spoke rendered his meaning so unmistakable, that, after a slight attempt to repress the inclination, one of his companions burst into a laugh, while the other, who had sufficient good feeling to be disgusted at such an unprovoked insult, turned on his heel and walked away. Lewis stood for a moment as if stunned; then, flushing crimson, he actually quivered with suppressed anger; still it was evident that he was striving to master his passion, and apparently he was in great measure successful, for when he spoke it was in a low, calm voice.
“Am I to understand,” he said, “that your lordship, considering this glove polluted by the accident of my having touched it, will never wear it again?”
“Ya—as,” was the reply; “you may very safely come to that conclusion without any fear of misinterpreting my intentions.”