The grandeur and luxury which surrounded the parvenu lord at times irritated Sir Ranald curiously, though from sheer desperation and selfishness he longed for the hour when his daughter should share them; thus he was sometimes prompted to say sharp—almost sneering—things to his prospective son-in-law.
'My old and infernal foe—(pardon me, Miss Cheyne)—is with me again,' said Cadbury, as he hobbled back to his seat.
'Who—what?' asked Sir Ranald.
'The gout—they say it comes with ease and money.'
'With years too, Cadbury—one can't have everything as they would wish it,' replied Sir Ranald, with a gush of ill-humour; 'all men, we are told, "are on the road which begins with the cradle and ends with the grave; and, in some instances, the world would be better were the distance between the two shorter."'
'Pon my soul, Cheyne, you are unpleasant,' replied the peer, not precisely knowing what to make of this aphorism; 'but there goes the gong for dinner,' and, drawing Alison's hand over his arm, he led the way to the dining-room; 'and so you have quite declined all my offers of a mount, Miss Cheyne?' said he, in a voice of would-be reproachful tenderness, 'though I have put my entire stables at your disposal.'
'Yes—a thousand thanks.'
'Your taste has changed; or are you weary of the spins round Twesildon Hill and Aldershot way! Some of them are pretty stiff, I believe.'
Alison coloured at the, perhaps chance, reference to Aldershot, but seated herself on her host's right hand, and made no reply.
The slow elaboration of the dinner, with its many entrées and courses, though it was perfect from the maraschino to the coffee; the two tall solemn servants in resplendant liveries (like theatrical properties) in attendance upon them, and the silent butler in the background, all oppressed Alison.