“I didn’t ask you who the note was for that we left at Mother Clode’s,” said Sir Matthew sulkily.
“No; neither did I ask you where yours came from—you Goliath of foxes,” laughed Sir Harry. “But I say. ’Fore George, it was on mourning paper, and was scented with musk. Ha—ha—ha!”
Sir Matthew scowled and grumbled, but the next moment the incident was forgotten, and both gentlemen were raising their ugly beaver hats to first one and then another of the belles they passed.
Meanwhile the britzka was driven on along the Parade, and drew up at the house of the Master of the Ceremonies, where the footman descended from his seat beside the coachman, and brought envious lodging-letters to the windows on either side by his tremendous roll of the knocker and peal at the bell.
Isaac appeared directly.
Yes, Miss Denville was in, so the steps were rattled down, and Mrs Frank Burnett descended lightly, rustled up to the front door, and entered with all the hauteur of one accustomed to a large income and carriage calling.
“Ah, Claire darling!” she cried, as she was shown into the drawing-room; “how glad I shall be to see you doing this sort of thing. Really, you know, it is time.”
“Ah, May dear,” said Claire, kissing her sister affectionately, but with a grave pained look in her eyes, “I am so glad to see you. I was wishing you would come. Papa will be so disappointed: he has gone up the town to see the tailor about Morton.”
“What, does that boy want new clothes again? Papa did not say so.”
“Have you seen him, then?”