“It is the less pointed,” said the Master; “c’est de bon ton: my brother improves as he continues. And I, dear Mr. Mackellar?”
“You will have bed and board, Mr. Bally,” said I. “I am permitted to give you the run of the cellar, which is pretty reasonably stocked. You have only to keep well with me, which is no very difficult matter, and you shall want neither for wine nor a saddle-horse.”
He made an excuse to send Macconochie from the room.
“And for money?” he inquired. “Have I to keep well with my good friend Mackellar for my pocket-money also? This is a pleasing return to the principles of boyhood.”
“There was no allowance made,” said I; “but I will take it on myself to see you are supplied in moderation.”
“In moderation?” he repeated. “And you will take it on yourself?” He drew himself up, and looked about the hall at the dark rows of portraits. “In the name of my ancestors, I thank you,” says he; and then, with a return to irony, “But there must certainly be an allowance for Secundra Dass?” he said. “It is not possible they have omitted that?”
“I will make a note of it, and ask instructions when I write,” said I.
And he, with a sudden change of manner, and leaning forward with an elbow on the table—“Do you think this entirely wise?”
“I execute my orders, Mr. Bally,” said I.
“Profoundly modest,” said the Master; “perhaps not equally ingenuous. You told me yesterday my power was fallen with my father’s death. How comes it, then, that a peer of the realm flees under cloud of night out of a house in which his fathers have stood several sieges? that he conceals his address, which must be a matter of concern to his Gracious Majesty and to the whole republic? and that he should leave me in possession, and under the paternal charge of his invaluable Mackellar? This smacks to me of a very considerable and genuine apprehension.”