“Hallo, Granty! waxey?” said Kenneth; but the butler did not condescend to answer.
“Much sport, father?”
“Eh? Yes, my boy. Two good stags.”
“I say, father, I wish I had been there.”
“Eh? Yes, I wish you had, Ken. But you had your guest to welcome. I hope you had a pleasant run up from Glasgow.”
“Pretty good,” faltered Max, who became scarlet as he saw Kenneth’s laughing look.
“That’s right,” said the host. “You must show Mr Blande all you can, Ken,” he continued, softening a little over the salmon. “Sorry we have no lobster sauce, Mr Blande. This is not a lobster shore. Make Kenneth take you about well.”
“I did show him the Grey Mare’s Tail, father,” said Kenneth, with a merry look across the table.
“Ah yes! a very beautiful fall.”
The dinner went on, but, though he was faint, Max did not make a hearty meal, for, in addition to everything seeming so strange, and the manners of his host certainly constrained, from time to time it seemed to the visitor that all of a sudden the table, with its white cloth, glittering glass and plate, began to rise up, taking him with it, and repeating the movements of the steamer where they caught the Atlantic swell. Then it subsided, and, as a peculiar giddy feeling passed off, the table seemed to move again; this time with a quick jerk, similar to that given by Kenneth’s boat.