Old Reuben, having seen the footman, went himself to admit the visitors, with his grandson and slave in attendance.
“It must be her little ladyship,” he said, taking his young mistress’s view of the case. “Lord Fareham would never dare to show his deceiving face here.”
A shrill voice greeted him from the coach window before he reached the gate.
“You are the slowest old wretch I ever saw!” cried the voice. “Don’t you know that when visitors of importance come to a house they expect to be let in? I vow a convent gate would be opened quicker.”
“Indeed, your ladyship, when your legs are as old as mine——”
“Which I hope they never will be,” muttered Henriette, as she descended with a languid slowness from the coach, assisted on either side by a footman; while George, who could not wait for her airs and graces, let himself out at the door on the off side just as Reuben succeeded in turning the key.
“So you are old Reuben!” he said, patting the butler on the shoulder with the gold hilt of his riding-whip. “And you were here, like a vegetable, all through the Civil Wars and the Commonwealth?”
“Yes, your lordship, from the raising of Hampden’s regiment.”
“Ah, you shall tell me all about it over a pipe and a bottle. You must be vastly good company. I am come to live here.”
“To live here, your honour?”