"Yes, my lady."
"I think I noticed," said Lord Davenant, a little more cheerfully, "as we walked through the library, a most beautiful chair." He cleared his throat, but said no more.
Then they were shown to their own rooms, and told that luncheon would be served immediately.
"And I hope, Clara Martha," said his lordship, when they were alone, "that luncheon in this house means something solid and substantial—fried oysters now, with a beefsteak and tomatoes, and a little green corn in the ear, I should like."
"It will be something, my dear, worthy of our rank. I almost regret now that you are a teetotaler—wine, somehow, seems to belong to a title. Do you think that you could break your vow and take one glass, or even two, of wine—just to show that you are equal to the position."
"No, Clara Martha," her husband replied with decision. "No—I will not break the pledge—not even for a glass of old Bourbon."
There were no fried oysters at that day's luncheon, nor any green corn in the ear; but it was the best square meal that his lordship had ever sat down to in his life. Yet it was marred by the presence of an imposing footman, who seemed to be watching to see how much an American could eat. This caused his lordship to drop knives and upset glasses, and went very near to mar the enjoyment of the meal.
After the luncheon he bethought him of the chair in the library, and retired there. It was indeed a most beautiful chair—low in the seat, broad and deep, not too soft—and there was a footstool.
His lordship sat down in this chair, beside a large and cheerful fire, put up his feet, and surveyed the room. Books were ranged round all the walls—books from floor to ceiling. There was a large table with many drawers, covered with papers, magazines, and reviews, and provided with ink and pens. The door was shut, and there was no sound save of a passing carriage in the square.