It was with no small feeling of embarrassment, however, that, having sent the letter to its destination by an early footman, he made his appearance at the breakfast-table. Behind the Austrian coffee-urn, filled with French coffee, Mrs. Dennant, who had placed four eggs in a German egg-boiler, said “Good-morning,” with a kindly smile.
“Dick, an egg?” she asked him, holding up a fifth.
“No, thank you,” replied Shelton, greeting the table and fitting down.
He was a little late; the buzz of conversation rose hilariously around.
“My dear,” continued Mr. Dennant, who was talking to his youngest daughter, “you'll have no chance whatever—not the least little bit of chance.”
“Father, what nonsense! You know we shall beat your heads off!”
“Before it 's too late, then, I will eat a muffin. Shelton, pass the muffins!” But in making this request, Mr. Dennant avoided looking in his face.
Antonia, too, seemed to keep her eyes away from him. She was talking to a Connoisseur on Art of supernatural appearances, and seemed in the highest spirits. Shelton rose, and, going to the sideboard, helped himself to grouse.
“Who was the young man I saw yesterday on the lawn?” he heard the Connoisseur remark. “Struck me as having an—er—quite intelligent physiog.”
His own intelligent physiog, raised at a slight slant so that he might look the better through his nose-nippers, was the very pattern of approval. “It's curious how one's always meeting with intelligence;” it seemed to say. Mrs. Dennant paused in the act of adding cream, and Shelton scrutinised her face; it was hare-like, and superior as ever. Thank goodness she had smelt no rat! He felt strangely disappointed.