"He had no right to come up and speak to you, grandfather," was all she would say, and that with a quite unusual firmness.
In the evening, after dinner, when the time came at which Maisrie was accustomed to take up her violin, there was obviously a little embarrassment. But George Bethune tried to break through that by a forced display of geniality.
"Come, now, Maisrie," said he, in a gay fashion, "our neighbour over the way was straightforward enough to come up and offer us his hand; and we must return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Get your violin, and play something: he will understand."
"Grandfather, how can you ask me?" she said, almost indignantly; and there was that in the tone of her voice that forbade him to press her further.
But perhaps the universal stillness that prevailed thereafter conveyed some kind of reproach to her; or perhaps her heart softened a little; at all events she presently said, in rather a low voice, and with a diffident manner—
"Grandfather, if you—if you really think the young gentleman wished to be kind and obliging—and—and if you would like to show him some little politeness in return—couldn't you step across the way—and—and see him, and talk to him for a few minutes? Perhaps he would be glad of that, if he is quite alone."
"A capital idea, Maisrie," the old man said, rising at once. "A capital idea." And then he added, with an air of lofty complacency and condescension, as he selected a couple of volumes from a heap of books on the sideboard: "Perhaps I might as well take over the Mémoires with me; it is not at all unlikely he may wish to know something further about Maximilien de Bethune. I am not surprised—not at all surprised—that a young man called Harris should perceive that there is something in the grandeur of an old historical name."
CHAPTER IV.
STALLED OX AND A DINNER OF HERBS.
But on this particular evening, as it happened, Vincent had promised to dine at home; for his aunt was returning to Brighton on the following day; and there was to be a little farewell banquet given in her honour. Of course aunt and nephew sate together; Mrs. Ellison had arranged that; knowing that at these semi-political dinner-parties the company was frequently a trifle mixed, she took care that on one side at least she should have a pleasant neighbour. And indeed when the guests had taken their places—there were about thirty in all—the table presented a pretty sight. From end to end it was a mass of flowers; at intervals there were pyramids of ice, draped with roses, blush-red and yellow; but the candles in the tall candelabra were not lit—the softly-tinted globes of the electric light shed a sufficient and diffused lustre. It was a sumptuous entertainment; and yet there prevailed an air of elegance and refinement. When soup was served, it was not the aldermanic turtle, but a clear golden fluid with gems of crimson and green; and it was handed round in silver dishes. No one thought of a thick soup on this hot June night.