“Sir,” quoth he, “have the goodness to send your card to me upstairs! In three weeks or a month, I shall call you to account for your ill-mannered temerity—and your blood be on your own head!” So saying, my Lord Sayle strode up the stair, leaving the unfortunate young gentleman to support his half-swooning companion into an adjacent chamber amid the sympathetic murmurs of the company.
It was now that a second carriage drew up before the inn, an extremely dusty vehicle this, and so very plain as to excite no more notice than did the slender, soberly clad person who lightly descended therefrom, a very ordinary-looking person indeed, except perhaps for a certain arrogant tilt of the chin and the brilliance of his long-lashed eyes.
Scarce had his foot touched pavement than he was greeted by a tall, square-shouldered man, extremely neat and precise as to attire, who escorted him forthwith into the inn.
“Well, Robert,” said Sir John—or rather, Mr. Derwent—when they had found a corner sufficiently sequestered, “I rejoice to be back; these few days of town ha’ sufficed. To your true man o’ sentiment, Rusticity hath a thousand charms, Bob. You agree, I think?”
“I do, sir.”
“Old Mr. Dumbrell, for instance. He is well, I trust, Robert, and——”
“They are, your honour!”
“And how go matters at High Dering?”
“Fairly quiet, sir.”