Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Six.
Brought Home.
“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Lascelles, “I am going to ask you to excuse me. You know my old fashion—bed betimes. Rockley will take the chair, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves. Good-night.”
The grey-headed old Colonel quitted the mess-room, and the wine was left for the card-tables, after the customary badinage and light conversation that marked these meetings.
It had been a special night, and a few extra toasts had been proposed, notably the healths of Sir Matthew Bray and his lady, it having leaked out that the young baronet had at last led the fair Lady Drelincourt to the altar, with all her charms.
Sir Matthew, prompted a great deal by Sir Harry Payne—who had but lately rejoined the regiment, looking pale and ill—had made his response, and he was a good deal congratulated, the last to speak to him about his noble spouse being Sir Harry.
“Why, Matt,” he exclaimed, “you look as if you were going to be hung. Aren’t you happy, man?”
“Happy!” said Sir Matthew, in deep, melodramatic tones. “You speak as if you had not seen my wife.”
Sir Harry stared him full in the face for a few moments, and then burst into a hearty laugh, but winced directly, and drew in his breath sharply, for the knife Louis Gravani had used struck pretty deep.