But the dinner was not a pleasant one, even if good; there was too much, “Thompson, that hock to Sir Felix Landells;” “Thompson, the dry champagne to Captain Vanleigh”—it was hard work to Sir Hampton not to add “of the Guards;” “Thompson, let Mr Trevor taste that Clos-Vougeot;” and it was a relief when the ladies rose.
“If he will talk about his cellar, Felix, punish it,” whispered Vanleigh, as they drew closer; but Sir Felix Landells’s thoughts were in the drawing-room, and though Sir Hampton persisted in talking about his cellar—how many dozens of this he had laid down, how many dozens of that; how he had been favoured by getting a few dozens of Sir Magnum O’pus’s port at the sale, and so on ad infinitum—Sir Felix refrained from looking upon the wine when it was red; and as soon as etiquette allowed they joined the ladies in the drawing-room, where Trevor had the mortification of seeing Vanleigh resume his position by Tiny, while Landells loomed over Fin like an aristocratic poplar by a rose-bush.
Trevor consoled himself, though, by sitting down by pleasant Lady Rea, while Sir Hampton crackled at Pratt, talked politics to him, and his ideas of Parliament, and Aunt Matty fanned herself, as she treated Pepine to the sensation of lavender poplin as a couch.
“What a nice little man your friend is, Mr Trevor,” began Lady Rea; “I declare he’s the nicest, sensiblest man I ever met.”
“I’m glad you like him, Lady Rea,” said Trevor, earnestly; “but I want to talk to you.”
“There isn’t anything the matter, is there?” said Lady Rea, anxiously.
Trevor looked at her for an instant, and saw that in her face which quickened his resolve, already spumed into action by the markedly favoured attentions of Vanleigh to the elder daughter of the house.
“Lady Rea,” he said, “I’m in trouble.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, with simple, genuine condolence. “Can I help you?”
“Indeed you can,” said Trevor; and he proceeded to tell her what he had discovered respecting Mrs Lloyd’s designs.