And then they sat down at table. Lady Brotherton ate her bit of chicken with all that unearthly, immeasurable calm which distinguishes elder people, taking everything quite coolly, though with a flaming volcano on each side of her; would she eat her chicken all the same, they wondered, if they too were to explode and be carried off into the elements? Notwithstanding their mutual opposition, they could not help giving each other a glance of sympathy as they watched her, wondering how she could do it. Lionel felt that he never could again believe in those sensations which his mother had often described to him, which affected her when he was in any trouble. Sympathy! She could not take things so quietly if she was a woman of any sympathy at all.
The meal was half over. Lydia had scattered salad over her plate to look as if she had eaten what was set before her, and Lionel, on his side, had practised some other artifice. Thank heaven the moment was almost over when they must sit there together exposed to observation. When the door opened, Lionel rose to his feet to receive his father’s old friend. But what did Lydia care for Sir John’s old friend? it was an excuse to push her chair away from the table. It was Sir John’s English servant who introduced the stranger; an Italian might have made a mistake about the name, but about this there was no mistake. Thomas came in before the visitor with all the imperturbability of a British flunkey.
“Mr. Isaac Oliver,” he said.
Then Lydia too rose to her feet wondering, with a little cry of surprise. She did not know what she thought, whether it was a messenger from home with evil tidings, or merely a fantastic coincidence. Lionel was greatly astonished too. He made a step forward to meet the new-comer—and there was something in the aspect of the new-comer which puzzled him still more, he could not tell why. Where had he seen him before? He was certain he had seen him before.
“Mr.—Isaac—Oliver?” he said.
He perceived, without being aware of it till after, that at his surprised tone the stranger turned a suspicious look upon him, and glanced round upon the party with the manner of a man who was not entirely at his ease.
“Yes, that is what I am called,” he said.
CHAPTER VIII.
ISAAC OLIVER.
AND after all, what is there in a name? That was not an original observation in Romeo’s case, much less in that of an English resident in Italy far on in the nineteenth century. The person who thus presented himself in Sir John Brotherton’s rooms was tall and strong, and fair, with the amplitude of chest and breadth of back which show a man to have attained the very fullness of manhood, or perhaps a little more. His hair was light brown and curly, with life and vigour in every crisp twist of it, and in the short beard then unusual with Englishmen, and considered “foreign” by the inexperienced. Except this beard, and something in his dress which betrayed a continental tailor, he was altogether English in his appearance, and in his voice there was something that betrayed the North-country, or so at least two of the company, startled by his name, supposed. Lydia who felt ashamed of herself for her little cry of wonder, sat down in a corner behind backs, and felt the better for the curious stir of surprise and expectation which seemed to blow on her like a breath of fresh air: while Lionel bestirred himself to welcome the stranger, who explained that he came on the part of Mr. Bonamy, then occupied in public affairs, who hoped to pay his respects to Sir John later. “I ought to introduce myself as his son-in-law,” Mr. Oliver said.
“Oh, you are Rita’s husband,” said Lady Brotherton, “little Rita! forgive me, I used to know her when she was a child. I have not realised the idea of Rita married.”