Kenneth hurried his visitor down-stairs, and, as they reached the hall, a sharp voice said,—
“Mr Blande, I suppose! How do you do? Well, Kenneth, did you have a good run? Nice day for a sail.”
Max had not had time to speak, as the tall, aquiline-looking man, with keen eyes and closely-cut blackish-grey hair, turned and walked on before them into the dining-room. The lad felt a kind of chill, as if he had been repelled, and was not wanted; and there was a sharp, haughty tone in his host’s voice which the sensitive visitor interpreted to mean dislike.
As he followed into the room, he had just time to note that, in spite of his coldness, his host was a fine, handsome, distingué man, and that he looked uncommonly well in the grey kilt and dark velvet shooting-jacket, which seemed to make him as picturesque in aspect as one of the old portraits on the walls.
Max had also time to note that a very severe-looking man-servant in black held open and closed the door after them, following him up, and, as he took the place pointed out by Kenneth, nearly knocking him off his balance by giving his chair a vicious thrust, with the result that he sat down far too quickly.
“Amen!” said the host sharply, and in a frowning, absent way.
“I haven’t said grace, father,” exclaimed Kenneth.
“Eh! haven’t you? Ah, well, I thought you had. What’s the soup, Grant?”
“Hotch-potch, sir,” replied the butler.
“Confound hotch-potch! Tell that woman not to send up any more till I order it.”