After dinner, while we were in the drawing-room alone, a note came for Mrs. Murray-Hartley.  She was talking to Octavia and me, so she read it aloud; it was from Lord Valmond, and sent from the inn in the little town.  He said he had intended staying there by himself for the Hunt Ball, but that on arrival he found no fire in his room, so he was writing to ask if Mrs. Murray-Hartley would put him up.  She was enchanted, and at once asked Lady Greswold if it would not be better to turn Lord Oldfield out of his room—­which is the best in the bachelors’ suite—­as he is only a baron; but Lady Greswold said she did not think it would matter.  I do call it odd, don’t you, Mamma? because Lord Valmond told me, when he left Chevenix on Saturday, that he had to go to another party in Yorkshire, and was as cross as a bear because he would not be able to be at the Grassfield ball.  He turned up beautifully dressed as usual, as quickly as it was possible for the brougham which was sent for him to get back.  He could not have kept it waiting a moment; so I don’t believe the story about there being no fire in his room, do you?

[Sidenote:  Friendly Offers]

Mrs. Murray-Hartley did gush at him.  Octavia says it is the first time she has been able to get him to her house, as he is ridiculously old-fashioned and particular, and actually in London won’t go to places unless he knows the host and hostess personally.  He stood with a vacant frown on his face all the time Mrs. Murray-Hartley was speaking, and a child could have seen he wanted to get away.  It is in these kind of ways Frenchmen are more polite, because the Marquis always wore an interested grin when Godmamma kept him by her.  He got away at last, and came across the room, but by that time Sir Trevor and Mr. Hodgkinson were talking to me, and there was no room for him on our sofa, and he had to speak to Lady Cecilia, who was near.  She was as absent as usual, and he was talking at random, so their conversation was rather funny; I heard scraps of it.

[Sidenote:  A Sense of Honour]

Mr. Murray-Hartley must be very nice, although he looks so unimportant, for all the men call him “Jim,” and are awfully friendly.  Lord Oldfield and Lord Doraine seem ready to do anything for him.  Lord Oldfield offered to hunt about and get him just the right stables for his house in Belgrave Square; he knew of some splendid ones, he said, that were going a great bargain, on a freehold that belongs to his sister’s husband.  And Lord Doraine says he will choose his horses for him at Tattersall’s next week, as he wants some good hunters; he knows of the very ones for him.  “You leave it all to me, dear boy,” he said; and at that Sir Trevor, who was listening (they were all standing close to our sofa) went into a guffaw of laughter.  “Hunters,” he whispered, quite loud, “beastly little Jew, he’d have to have a rocking-horse, and hold on by its mane.”  And when I said I did not think one ought to speak so of people when one was eating their salt, he seemed to think that quite a new view of the case, and said, “By Jove! you are right, Elizabeth.  Our honour and our sense of hospitality are both blunted nowadays.”