De Malfort, after assisting in their sports for a quarter of an hour with considerable spirit, had deserted them, and sneaked off to the great saloon, where he sat on the Turkey carpet at Lady Fareham’s feet, singing chansonettes to his guitar, while George and the spaniels sprawled beside him, the whole group making a picture of indolent enjoyment, fitfully lighted by the blaze of a yule log that filled the width of the chimney. Fareham and the Priest were playing chess at the other end of the long low room, by the light of a single candle.
Papillon ran in at the door and ejaculated her disgust at De Malfort’s desertion.
“Was there ever such laziness? It’s bad enough in Georgie to be so idle; but then, he has over-eaten himself.”
“And how do you know that I haven’t over-eaten myself, mistress?” asked De Malfort.
“You never do that; but you often drink too much—much, much, much too much!”
“That’s a slanderous thing to say of your mother’s most devoted servant,” laughed De Malfort. “And pray how does a baby-girl like you know when a gentleman has been more thirsty than discreet?”
“By the way you talk—always French. Jarni! ch’dame, n’savons joui d’ n’belle s’rée—n’fam-partie d’ombre. Moi j’ai p’du n’belle f’tune, p’rol’d’nneur! You clip your words to nothing. Aren’t you coming to play hide-and-seek?”
“Not I, fair slanderer. I am a salamander, and love the fire.”
“Is that a kind of Turk? Good-bye. I’m going to hide.”
“Beware of the chests in the gallery, sweetheart,” said her father, who heard only this last sentence, as his daughter ran past him towards the door. “When I was in Italy I was told of a bride who hid herself in an old dower-chest, on her wedding-day—and the lid clapped to with a spring and kept her there for half a century.”