“Nothing extremely particular,” answered Mr. Cargill, after a pause; “it is an ordinary tale of greatness, which blazes in one century, and is extinguished in the next. I think Camden says, that Thomas Mowbray, who was Grand-Marshal of England, succeeded to that high office, as well as to the Dukedom of Norfolk, as grandson of Roger Bigot, in 1301.”
“Pshaw, man, you are back into the 14th century—I mean these Mowbrays of St. Ronan's—now, don't fall asleep again until you have answered my question—and don't look so like a startled hare—I am speaking no treason.”
The clergyman floundered a moment, as is usual with an absent man who is recovering the train of his ideas, or a somnambulist when he is suddenly awakened, and then answered, still with hesitation,—
“Mowbray of St. Ronan's?—ha—eh—I know—that is—I did know the family.”
“Here they are going to give a masquerade, a bal paré, private theatricals, I think, and what not,” handing him the card.
“I saw something of this a fortnight ago,” said Mr. Cargill; “indeed, I either had a ticket myself, or I saw such a one as that.”
“Are you sure you did not attend the party, Doctor?” said the Nabob.
“Who attend? I? you are jesting, Mr. Touchwood.”
“But are you quite positive?” demanded Mr. Touchwood, who had observed, to his infinite amusement, that the learned and abstracted scholar was so conscious of his own peculiarities, as never to be very sure on any such subject.
“Positive!” he repeated with embarrassment; “my memory is so wretched that I never like to be positive—but had I done any thing so far out of my usual way, I must have remembered it, one would think—and—I am positive I was not there.”