Marston thought, and, perhaps, not erroneously, that Sir Wynston suspected something of the real state of affairs, and he was, therefore, incensed to perceive, as he thought, in his manner, very evident indications of his being in unusually good spirits.  Thus disposed, the party sat down to supper.

“One of our number is missing,” said Sir Wynston, affecting a slight surprise, which, perhaps, he did not feel.

“Mademoiselle de Barras—­I trust she is well?” said Doctor Danvers, looking towards Marston.

“I suppose she is; I don’t know,” said Marston, drily.

“Why! how should he know,” said the baronet, gaily, but with something almost imperceptibly sarcastic in his tone.  “Our friend, Marston, is privileged to be as ungallant as he pleases, except where he has the happy privilege to owe allegiance; but I, a gay young bachelor of fifty, am naturally curious.  I really do trust that our charming French friend is not unwell.”

He addressed his inquiry to Mrs. Marston, who, with some slight confusion, replied:—­

“No; nothing, at least, serious; merely a slight headache.  I am sure she will be quite well enough to come down to breakfast.”

“She is, indeed, a very charming and interesting young person,” said Doctor Danvers.  “There is a certain simplicity about her which argues a good and kind heart, and an open nature.”

“Very true, indeed, doctor,” observed Berkley, with the same faint, but, to Marston, exquisitely provoking approximation to sarcasm.  “There is, as you say, a very charming simplicity.  Don’t you think so, Marston?”

Marston looked at him for a moment, but continued silent.

“Poor mademoiselle!—­she is, indeed, a most affectionate creature,” said Mrs. Marston, who felt called upon to say something.

“Come, Marston, will you contribute nothing to the general fund of approbation?” said Sir Wynston, who was gifted by nature with an amiable talent for teasing, which he was fond of exercising in a quiet way.  “We have all, but you, said something handsome of our absent young friend.”

“I never praise anybody, Wynston; not even you,” said Marston, with an obvious sneer.

“Well, well, I must comfort myself with the belief that your silence covers a great deal of good-will, and, perhaps, a little admiration, too,” answered his cousin, significantly.

“Comfort yourself in any honest way you will, my dear Wynston,” retorted Marston, with a degree of asperity, which, to all but the baronet himself, was unaccountable.  “You may be right, you may be wrong; on a subject so unimportant it matters very little which; you are at perfect liberty to practice delusions, if you will, upon yourself.”

“By-the-bye, Mr. Marston, is not your son about to come down here?” asked Doctor Danvers, who perceived that the altercation was becoming, on Marston’s part, somewhat testy, if not positively rude.