Here the Duke took his place at the head of the table, in an immense carved oak chair, and Lord Lionel installed himself in a similar chair at the foot. Lady Lionel sat at her nephew’s right hand, and Miss Scamblesby and Mr. Romsey established themselves opposite to her, with only one footman between the pair of them.

Lord Lionel being an advocate of what he considered a neat, plain dinner, only two courses were served at Sale Park when the family dined alone. The first of these consisted of a tureen of turtle, removed with fish, which was in its turn removed with a haunch of venison. Several side-dishes, such as pork cutlets with Rober sauce, larded fillets of beef, tenderones of veal and truffles, and a braised ham, graced the board, but since his lordship was a moderate trencherman, and the Duke had a notoriously small appetite, the only person who did justice to the spread was Miss Scamblesby, who had (so his lordship had more than once remarked to his nephew) the inordinate appetite of all poor relations.

While the first course dragged on its way, conversation was of a desultory nature. The Duke looked tired; his aunt rarely troubled herself to make conversation; and Lord Lionel seemed preoccupied. When the first course was carried out in procession, however, he roused himself to say: “Well! You are all very dull to-night!” a remark which not unnaturally bereft the assembled company of any conversational ideas they might have had.

“Well, Gilly!” said his lordship, after a pause of which no one showed any sign of wishing to take advantage. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

A slightly apprehensive look came into the Duke’s eyes. Mr. Romsey said kindly: “I fancy you are tired, my lord.”

“No, no!” Gilly disclaimed, almost shrinking from the imputation.

It had the effect of softening Lord Lionel.