“You don’t believe in it, Averil!” muttered Colonel Max in surprise, as he gazed at him.
“I!” was the answer. “Certainly not. Why should you ask it?”
“You look so grave over it.”
“I never like to joke, though it be only by a smile, on the subject of death,” replied Lord Averil. “I once received a lesson upon the point, and it will serve me my life.”
“Will your lordship tell us what it was!” interposed Sir John, who had been introduced to Lord Averil to-day for the first time.
“I cannot do so now,” replied Lord Averil. “The subject is not suited to a merry party,” he frankly added. “But it would not help to bear out your superstition, Sir John: you are possibly thinking that it might do so.”
“If I have sat down once thirteen, I have sat down fifty times,” cried Colonel Max, “and we all lived the year out and many a year on to it. You are a sociable fellow to invite out to dinner, Pevans! I fancy Mr. George Godolphin must be thinking so.”
Mr. George Godolphin appeared to be thinking of something that rendered him somewhat distrait. In point of fact, his duties as host were considerably broken by listening to the door. Above the conversation his ear was strained, hoping for the knock that should announce Mr. Verrall. It was of course strange that he neither appeared nor sent an excuse. But no knock seemed to come: and George could only rally his powers, and forget Mr. Verrall.
It was a recherché repast. George Godolphin’s state dinners always were so. No trouble or expense was spared for them. Luxuries, in season and out of season, would be there. The turtle would seem richer at his table than at any other, the venison more delicate; the Moselle of fuller flavour, the sparkling hermitage of rarest vintage.
The evening passed on. Some of the gentlemen were solacing themselves with a cup of coffee, when the butler slipped a note into his master’s hand. “The man waits for an answer, sir,” he whispered. And George glided out of the room, and opened the note.