"Catch it! you talk as if it were a disease. Well" (speaking demurely), "perhaps on the whole it would be more convenient if I were to know it."
Silence.
"Well! what is it?"
No answer.
"I shall have to ask at your lodge!"
"Who can pronounce his own name in cold blood?" he says, reddening a little. "I, for one, cannot—there—if you do not mind looking at this card—"
He takes one out of his pocket, and I stop—we are slowly strolling back—under a lamp, to read it:
Mr. MR. FRANCIS MUSGRAVE,
MUSGRAVE ABBEY.
"Oh, thanks—Musgrave—yes."
"And Sir Roger has never mentioned me to you really?" he says, recurring with persistent hurt vanity to the topic. "How very odd of him!"