“How do you do?” began Sir Harry, in his loud voice. “I must apologize for my intrusion; but I think my name is well known to you, and needs no introduction. I have often heard of Mr. Mayne, I can assure you.”
“You do me too much honor,” returned that gentleman, stiffly; and he glanced at the card in his hand. There it was, “Sir Henry Challoner.” “But what the––” And here his favorite expletive rose to his lips.
“We can scarcely see each other’s faces,” observed Sir Harry, cheerfully. “Will you allow me to take the liberty, though I have not known you for seven years—and hardly for seven minutes!” And then he seized the poker, and broke up an obstinate piece of coal.
“Actually, in my own house, and before my own eyes,” as Mr. Mayne told his wife afterwards.
“There, now! I have made a glorious blaze. These are first-rate coals. Now we can have our talk comfortably together. You do not know me personally; but I dare say you have heard of my father,—Sir Francis Challoner? Poor old fellow! I am afraid too many people heard of him in his time.”
“Yes, sir: but, as it is hardly becoming of me to say to his son, I have never heard much good of him. If I remember rightly, he did poor Challoner a bad turn once.”
“Hush, my good friend!” And Sir Harry’s ruddy face looked a little disturbed. “I thought no one but myself and Aunt Catherine knew that story. It is rather hard on a man to have this sort of things brought up. And the poor old governor is dead now: so, if you will permit me to observe, bygones had better be bygones on that subject.”
“Oh, by all means, Sir Harry; but you introduced the matter yourself.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Mayne,” rather haughtily, “I introduced myself. I am the son of Sir Francis. Well, if you know so much, you will understand the sort of interest I take in my cousins and how I consider it my duty to make up to them for what they have lost.”