Richard Yorke laughed a short dry laugh, apparently at some reflection of his own.

“Well, I’m sorry you’ve got your friend, landlord, and therefore can not have a chat with me; for it is evident we should find something to talk about together.”

“And I’m sorry too, Sir.  Though, if you wouldn’t be too proud to come into our bar parlor—­but then I can scarcely ask a gentleman as has been used to Crompton to do that.”

“Indeed, I shall be very pleased to come,” said Richard, frankly.  “I have nothing to be proud of, I assure you; and if I had, why should I not accept the company of an honest man?”

“Very good, Sir.  There’s only me, and my daughter Harry, and this friend of mine, Solomon Coe.  If you’ll please to walk this way.”

“Let’s take the bottle with us, and then, perhaps, Mr. Coe will help us to finish it.”

And bearing that token of amity in his hand, John Trevethick led the way into the bar parlor.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BAR PARLOR.

The bar parlor of the Gethin Castle was a small snug apartment in the rear of the house, and therefore exposed to the full fury of the Atlantic winds, which were now roaring without, and enhanced, by their idle menace, the comfort of its closely drawn red curtains, and its ample fire, the gleam of which was cast back from a goodly array of glasses and vessels of burnished pewter.  Upon a well-polished oak chest—­the pride of the house, for oak was almost as rare at Gethin as among the Esquimaux—­stood a mighty punch-bowl; and on the mantel-piece was a grotesque piece of earthen-ware, used for holding tobacco, about which some long clay pipes and peacocks’ feathers were artistically arranged.  A smell of nutmeg and lemons pervaded this apartment, and pleasantly accorded with its almost tropical temperature; and the contrast it altogether afforded to his own more stately but desolate “private sitting-room,” with its disused air and comfortless surroundings, struck Richard very agreeably.  On a chintz-covered sofa, in the most retired corner of this parlor, sat Solomon Coe and Harry Trevethick, and it was difficult to say in which of their countenances the most astonishment appeared when the young painter presented himself at the door.  Harry’s cheeks, which were not pale before, became crimson, though she neither moved nor spoke.  But Solomon rose, and, with a frown, seemed to be asking of Trevethick the reason of this unexpected intrusion.

“This is a friend of Mr. Whymper’s,” said the landlord, setting down the sherry on the table; “and therefore, I am sure, the friend of all of us.  That’s my daughter Harry, Sir; and that” (and here he grinned) “is Solomon Coe, a very intimate friend of hers—­as you may see.  We are a family party, in fact, or shall be some day; so, pray, make yourself at home.”

“I have seen Mr. Coe before,” said Richard, frankly, and shaking that gentleman’s unwilling hand; “and, though he took me for a bagman, I bear him no malice on that account.”