As he spoke a voice behind him said in a tone of trembling apprehension,—
“And it please your honour—he—he—”
Learmont positively gasped, and clutched the back of a chair for support, as he turned and faced another servant, the former one being afraid to venture into the presence of his fiery master again.
“W—what now?” he said.
“He won’t go, an it please your honour.”
“Won’t go?” echoed Learmont, in such a confusion of mind that he scarcely knew what he said, and the servant, emboldened by the apparent placidity of his master, added,—
“No, your honour, and he says he won’t wait either.”
“Thrust him from my door,” shrieked Learmont; “kill him—no—no—tell him to come to-morrow—yes, to-morrow.”
Learmont’s noble guests looked at each other in mute surprise. The voice in which Learmont had spoken was loud and strange, and attracted all eyes to the spot on which he stood. A glance around the ball-room at once showed him that he was the observed of all, and he felt the necessity of controlling his passion.
“The dance, the dance,” he cried; “the most precious hours of gladness and joy. The dance! The dance!”