“That is odd,” said the other gentleman, “so is mine. I did not know that there were any other Kershaws.”
“Nor did I,” answered Ernest, “except Sir Hugh Kershaw;” and his face darkened as he pronounced the name.
“I am Sir Hugh Kershaw’s son; my name is Hugh Kershaw,” was the reply.
“Indeed! Then we are cousins, I suppose; for I am his nephew, the son of his brother Ernest.”
Hugh Kershaw the elder did not receive this intelligence with even the moderate amount of enthusiasm that might have been expected; he simply lifted his scanty eyebrows, and said, “Oh, I remember, my uncle left a son;” then he turned and made some remark to the gentleman who sat next him that made the latter laugh.
Ernest felt the blood rise to his cheeks; there was something very insolent about his cousin’s tone.
Shortly afterwards the dinner came to an end, and madame, with another fascinating smile, retired. As for Ernest, he smoked a pipe with Mr. Alston, and about nine o’clock strolled over with him to the Hall, or Assembly Rooms, a building largely composed of glass, where thrice a week, during the season, the visitors at St. Peter’s Port adjourned to dance, flirt, and make merry.
One of the first sights that caught his eye was a fair creature in evening-dress, and with conspicuously white shoulders, in whom he recognised madame. She was sitting near the door, and appeared to be watching it. Ernest bowed to her, and was about to pass on; but, pursuing her former tactics, she dropped the bouquet she was carrying. He stooped, picked it up, returned it, and again made as though he would pass on, when she addressed him, just as the band struck up.
“Ah, que c’est belle, la musique! Monsieur valse, n’est-ce pas?”
In another minute they were floating down the room together. As they passed along, Ernest saw his cousin standing in the corner, looking at him with no amiable air. Madame saw his glance.