“A kind Providence,” he went on, rubbing his dry hands, and glancing nervously under the chairs, “has put this honour into my hands.”
“A Providence in petticoats, you mean,” broke in George.
“Possibly, my dear Caresfoot; but I do not see him. Is it possible that he is lurking yonder, behind the sofa?”
“Who on earth do you mean?”
“I mean that exceedingly fine dog of yours, Snarleyow. Snarleyow, where are you? Excuse me for taking precautions, but last time he put his head under my chair and bit me severely, as I dare say you remember.”
Arthur groaned at hearing the subject thus brought forward.
“Mr. Heigham’s dog killed Snarleyow this afternoon,” said George, in a savage voice.
At this intelligence, Sir John’s face became wreathed in smiles.
“I am deeply delighted—I mean grieved—to hear it. Poor Snarleyow! he was a charming dog; and to think that such a fate should have overtaken him, when it was only last week that he did the same kind office for Anne’s spaniel. Poor Snarleyow! you should really have him stuffed. But, my dear Caresfoot, you have not yet introduced me to the hero of the evening, Mr. Heigham. Mr. Heigham, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” and he shook hands with Arthur with gentle enthusiasm, as though he were the last scion of a race that he had known and loved for generations.
Presently dinner was announced, and the three sat down at a small round table in the centre of the big dining-room, on which was placed a shaded lamp. It was not a cheerful dinner. George, having said grace, relapsed into moody silence, eating and drinking with gusto but in moderation, and savouring every sup of wine and morsel of food as though he regretted its departure. He was not free from gluttony, but he was a judicious glutton. For his part, Arthur found a certain fascination in watching his guardian’s red head as he bobbed up and down opposite to him, and speculating on the thickness of each individual hair that contributed to give it such a spiky effect. What had his mother been like, he wondered, that she had started him in life with such an entirely detestable countenance? Meanwhile he was replying in monosyllables to Sir John’s gentle babblings, till at last even that gentleman’s flow of conversation ran dry, and Arthur was left free to contemplate the head in solemn silence. As soon as the cloth had been cleared away, George suggested that they had better get to work. Arthur assented, and Sir John, smiling with much sweetness, remarked profoundly that business was one of the ills of life, and must be attended to.