In his hand he held a tiny bunch of primroses, in his heart was already enshrined a small oval face with hazel stars for eyes, and alluring dimples which might well have tempted St. Anthony's self.
He was dreaming of dimples, eyes, and all the pretty foolishness of a youthful lover's first great passion as he entered his home.
Comrade, the faithful deerhound, met him at the entrance.
"There is news, yonder, master, but I cannot quite understand it," the great animal tried dumbly to explain, and restlessly led the way back towards the library.
Lights were burning, the door open, and old Bates the butler coming nervously forward, when a voice, rich, sweet, and powerful, though broken once and again by an explanatory hiccough, broke the silence:
"The jolly Muse, her wings to try,
No frolic flights need take,
But round the bowl would dip and fly
Like swallows round a lake.
And that I think's a reason fair
To drink and fill again."
"Mr. Michael, Mr. Michael," faltered Bates, in nervous agitation.
But Michael Berrington put him aside with commanding hand.
He knew he was going in to greet his father for the first time in his life.
Stephen Berrington lolled back in the wide armchair. Before him on a table was placed a large bowl of punch, in his mouth was a long pipe.