“But surely, Sir Godfrey,” continued the graduate, with very logical insensibility, “you must be of opinion that this country, inclined, as it now seems, to copy England, will be”—
“Like the Count de Charlemont and his friends, I should think, with their English riding-coats and bulldogs!” involuntarily broke in Charles Willoughby, with a laugh: he had been listening very intently; but the laugh ceased at his father’s sudden look.
“Do not interrupt Mr Thorpe, boy!” said the latter, rather sternly; then relaxing next minute at the abashed and flushed look, which made him feel as if his tone had been too harsh—“what do you mean—what Count—what did you say?”
“The mayor I had to visit this evening, you know, sir,” replied Charles, “the Comte de Charlemont, I mean—Charlemont is the village we got mobbed in.”
“De Charlemont?” repeated his father slowly, looking at him, “de Charlemont? You mistake, my boy—or is this some silly presumption of yours? That name I thought I had not allowed to slip from me. I never have permitted myself to mention it. Pronounce the name again.”
Charles did so distinctly and firmly. “That is curious,” said his father, rising from his seat. “Were you listening to what I told Mr Thorpe just now, Charles?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy, frankly.
“And I think I uttered no such name?” added the baronet.
“No,” said his son with gravity, “there was no name mentioned, except the Count de Grasse and Lord Rodney—I particularly noticed.”
“Ah—well,” was the only additional remark, as his father turned to the old stove-filled hearth-place, and leaning his arms above, stood plunged in thought; Mr Thorpe calmly reasoning on, till it was past time for prayers to be read, and for retirement. “I shall call on the Comte de Charlemont,” said Sir Godfrey, the last thing, to Lady Willoughby.