All eyes were upon him and his patrician partner as he led her across the richly-chalked floor. There was an impressive silence for a few seconds, when from a side-door a servant appeared, and gliding among the guests, approached Learmont, and stood for a moment as if he had something to say to him.
“Well, knave!” cried Learmont, his face slightly flushed with anger, at being interrupted at that moment.
“An please you, sir, there—there—is—”
The Honourable Georgiana tossed her plumed head with a look of great displeasure, and Learmont forgetting everything on the impulse of the moment, cried angrily,—
“Speak your message, sirrah!”
“A message from the Old Smithy,” said the trembling servant.
Learmont’s cheek blanched in an instant, and his lips quivered with agitation.
“How dare you?” he gasped.
“An please your honour,” said the man, in a submissive tone, “your honour ordered that—the—the—message from the Old Smithy should be always brought to your honour, and—he—he won’t go away—he—has knocked out two of Timothy’s teeth, your honour, besides, he—he—”
“Peace!” cried Learmont. “Peace, I say. Ho! Music there—music!”