"Fergus Desmond, please," said the future heir to The Desmond.
Mansfield left the room. Fergus looked round the shabby little study. He took up the Latin and Greek books and a sense of amazement possessed him. If it had not been for his old father he would not have gone on with this thing. He felt he had never seen a man like John Mansfield before. Fergus thought a good deal of rank and old family, but Mansfield was above all that kind of thing. He was higher up. He had, in fact, reached the soul heights, where earthly rank counts for nothing.
By-and-bye he came back, the colour in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes.
"I have news for you, Fergus," he said, "sudden, unexpected. Priscilla has come home."
"My goodness," said Fergus, "we all vowed that we would never speak to her again."
"Because she married me?" said Mansfield, with a sort of angelic smile.
"Yes, we were fools. I should like to see my sister, and I tell you honestly, Mansfield, that I think she has got the best of the bargain."
"But there is one thing I must add," continued Mansfield. "I cannot go with you to France to-night. I cannot desert my wife on her unexpected return."
There was a loud, harsh voice heard in the hall.
"Maggie, Maggie, where are you, Marguerite?"