The latter came to Evan, and said: “A fellow of the name of Goren wants you. Says there’s something the matter at home.”
Evan advanced, and bowed stiffly.
Mr. Goren held out his hand. “You don’t remember me, young man? I cut out your first suit for you when you were breeched, though! Yes-ah! Your poor father wouldn’t put his hand to it. Goren!”
Embarrassed, and not quite alive to the chapter of facts this name should have opened to him, Evan bowed again.
“Goren!” continued the possessor of the name. He had a cracked voice, that when he spoke a word of two syllables, commenced with a lugubrious crow, and ended in what one might have taken for a curious question.
“It is a bad business brings me, young man. I’m not the best messenger for such tidings. It’s a black suit, young man! It’s your father!”
The diplomatist and his lady gradually edged back but Rose remained beside the Countess, who breathed quick, and seemed to have lost her self-command.
Thinking he was apprehended, Mr. Goren said: “I’m going down to-night to take care of the shop. He’s to be buried in his old uniform. You had better come with me by the night-coach, if you would see the last of him, young man.”
Breaking an odd pause that had fallen, the Countess cried aloud, suddenly:
“In his uniform!”