“Yes—a—a—rather an ill-bred knave,” said Learmont. “My servants want a mistress sadly.”
“Such a strange thing in a ball-room,” added Georgiana.
“Eh!” said Lord Brereton. “If it be pronounceable, my dear, what was it?”
“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Learmont; “an absurd mistake. Is not that a divine strain they are playing?”
“Delightful!” said the lady. “But the words were a message from the Old Smithy!”
“The old who?” exclaimed Lord Brereton, with a shrug.
“The Old Smithy. I cannot pretend to know what it means.”
“Frightful!” exclaimed Lady Brereton.
Learmont tried to smile, but the distortion of his features looked as if occasioned by some acute pain rather than any sensation approaching to the mirthful.
“It was most absurd,” he said, “and might make one angry, but that it is too laughable.”