The first dinner-bell rang, and, on entering the drawing-room, Randal found Parson Dale and his wife, who had been invited in haste to meet the unexpected visitor.
The preliminary greetings over, Mr. Dale took the opportunity afforded by the Squire’s absence to inquire after the health of Mr. Egerton.
“He is always well,” said Randal, “I believe he is made of iron.”
“His heart is of gold,” said the Parson.
“Ah!” said Randal, inquisitively, “you told me you had come in contact with him once, respecting, I think, some of your old parishioners at Lansmere?”
The Parson nodded, and there was a moment’s silence.
“Do you remember your battle by the Stocks, Mr. Leslie?” said Mr. Dale, with a good-humored laugh.
“Indeed, yes. By the way, now you speak of it, I met my old opponent in London the first year I went up to it.”
“You did! where?”
“At a literary scamp’s—a cleverish man called Burley.”