Mr. Carlyle invited them to his house and ordered in refreshments. Young Herbert coolly threw himself into an arm-chair and lit a cigar. “Come, Thorn,” cried he, “here’s a weed for you.”
Captain Thorn glanced toward Mr. Carlyle; he appeared of a far more gentlemanly nature than Tom Herbert.
“You’ll have one too, Carlyle,” said Herbert, holding out his cigar-case. “Oh, I forgot—you are a muff; don’t smoke one twice a year. I say how’s Lady Isabel?”
“Very ill still.”
“By Jove! Is she, though? Tell her I am sorry to hear it, will you, Carlyle? But—I say! Will she smell the smoke?” asked he, with a mixture of alarm and concern in his face.
Mr. Carlyle reassured him upon the point, and turned to Captain Thorn.
“Are you acquainted with this neighborhood?”
Captain Thorn smiled. “I only reached West Lynne yesterday.”
“You were never here before then?” continued Mr. Carlyle, setting down the last as a probably evasive answer.
“No.”