“She’s eighteen,” said Sylvester abruptly. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-one,” answered Sir Tristram uncompromisingly.
“H’m!” said Sylvester. “A very excellent age.”
“For what?” asked Eustacie.
“For marriage, miss!”
Eustacie gave him a thoughtful look, but volunteered no further remark.
“You may go down to dinner now,” said Sylvester. “I regret that I am unable to bear you company, but I trust that the Nuits I have instructed Porson to give you will help you to overcome any feeling of gêne which might conceivably attack you.”
“You are all consideration, sir,” said Shield. “Shall we go, cousin?”
Eustacie, who did not appear to suffer from gêne, assented, curtseyed again to her grandfather, and accompanied Sir Tristram downstairs to the dining-room.
The butler had set their places at opposite ends of the great table, an arrangement in which both tacitly acquiesced, though it made conversation a trifle remote. Dinner, which was served in the grand manner, was well chosen, well cooked, and very long. Sir Tristram noticed that his prospective bride enjoyed a hearty appetite, and discovered after five minutes that she possessed a flow of artless conversation, quite unlike any he had been used to listen to in London drawing-rooms. He was prepared to find her embarrassed by a situation which struck him as being fantastic, and was somewhat startled when she remarked : “It is a pity that you are so dark, because I do not like dark men in general. However, one must accustom oneself.”