The servant disappeared, and George Rockwell turned upon his heel. He was not a little irritated at the result of the foregoing conversation, and he remained silent till quick steps sounded on the stairs outside, the door reopened vigorously, and young Charles, with de Mailly at his shoulder, gayly entered the room, bringing with them a new atmosphere.
"Good-day, Fairfield! Good-day, Mr. Rockwell!—Faith, you both look wofully! Is the sangaree ill made?"
The boy was in a gale of spirits, and ran about the room tasting of the liquor, looking down out of the window, and laughing at the three others. Claude saluted the gentlemen more quietly, observing to Sir Charles:
"I perceive that we have interrupted you. I crave pardon. I sent the man to see if you were disengaged."
"You are mistaken, monsieur. I assure you, in my turn, that your arrival could not have been more agreeable.—Confound it, Charles, have you a megrim or a frenzy? Where have you been, sir?"
"To a cock-fight in the Prince George Street pit. You should have been with us. Captain Jordan's bird against Jack Marshe's. Jack's died. The secretary will be in a rage. I won three pounds, though."
"You see, it was the first I had witnessed," explained de Mailly.
"Devil take me, why didn't you hunt me out, Charles? I've been eternally bored for a week.—You lost to him, de Mailly?"
Claude nodded. "As he said, a small bet—seventy-five francs."
Fairfield looked at him curiously. Three pounds did not seem to him small for a cockpit wager; but he would not have voiced this idea to the foreigner for double the amount. He turned again to young Charles.