"Newton, what are you and Lady Loftus talking about so impressively? But, perhaps, I should not inquire," said my uncle, as he carved the cold grouse, and a faint shade of annoyance flitted over the pale face of my companion.
"Well, Sir Nigel," I replied, "I was simply about to say that ere we see such a breakfast as this again, we shall have had a rough turn with the Russians, and talked polyglot-wise with fellows of all nations in the allied camp; have drunk sherbet, perhaps, with the Sultan, ogled his ladies at the gilded lattices, and smoked a chibouque with Giafar, Mesrour, and other friends of the Commander of the Faithful."
The flow of my spirits contrasted somewhat with the ebb of Berkeley's. He sat silent, and pulled from time to time his long moustaches and whiskers, which were mingled together—the envy of our apple-cheeked cornets.
But now Mr. Binns came in with the household letter-bag—a leather case, which bore Sir Nigel's name and arms on a brass plate, and its contents (always so welcome at a country breakfast-table) were distributed amongst us.
There were newspapers and letters for all present but me, luckily. I say luckily, for I was hourly in fear of having my short leave cancelled, and receiving a summons from the colonel to head-quarters.
"Lord Slubber de Gullion expresses great surprise that we are staying so long in Scotland," said the Countess of Chillingham, as she rapidly read over a letter written in a large, round-text hand.
"An old bore, mamma."
"Don't say so, Louisa."
The name, which is as near the original as I dare give it, sounded oddly; but there came a time when it was to prove a sad name to me.
"You know Slubber?" said Berkeley, in a low voice, to me.