Hugh Ritson opened the envelope. The note ran:
"I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to break bread with one who has broken the peace of my household; nor is it agreeable to my duty as a minister of Christ to give the countenance of my presence to proceedings which must be a sham, inasmuch as the person concerned is an imposter—with the which name I yet hope to brand him when the proper time and circumstances arrive."
Hugh smiled as he read the letter; then he thrust a shilling into Peter's unyielding hand, and shot away.
"The parson will not come," said Hugh, drawing Bonnithorne aside; "but that can not matter. If he is Greta's guardian, you are her father's executor." Then, raising his voice, "Gentlemen," he said, "my brother wishes us to begin breakfast; he will join us presently."
The company was soon seated; the talk was brisk and cheerful.
"Glorious prospect," said a gentleman sitting opposite the open window. "Often wonder you don't throw out a bay, Mr. Ritson."
"I've thought of it," said Hugh, "but it's not worth while to spend such money until one is master of one's own house."
"Ah, true, true!" said several voices in chorus.
Drayton entered, his eyes red, his face sallow. "Morning, gents," he said in his thick guttural.
Two of the gentlemen rose, and bowed with frigid politeness. "Good morning, Mr. Ritson," said the third.