The butler issued the necessary orders with all needful alacrity.  He spread the simple refreshment demanded, before his distinguished guest, in a state of blank bewilderment.  Here was a nobleman’s son, and a public celebrity into the bargain, filling himself with bread and cheese and ale, in at once the most voracious and the most unpretending manner, at his table!  The butler ventured on a little complimentary familiarity.  He smiled, and touched the betting-book in his breast-pocket.  “I’ve put six pound on you, Sir, for the Race.”  “All right, old boy! you shall win your money!” With those noble words the honorable gentleman clapped him on the back, and held out his tumbler for some more ale.  The butler felt trebly an Englishman as he filled the foaming glass.  Ah! foreign nations may have their revolutions! foreign aristocracies may tumble down!  The British aristocracy lives in the hearts of the people, and lives forever!

“Another!” said Geoffrey, presenting his empty glass.  “Here’s luck!” He tossed off his liquor at a draught, and nodded to the butler, and went out.

Had the experiment succeeded?  Had he proved his own theory about himself to be right?  Not a doubt of it!  An empty stomach, and a determination of tobacco to the head—­these were the true causes of that strange state of mind into which he had fallen in the kitchen-garden.  The dumb woman with the stony face vanished as if in a mist.  He felt nothing now but a comfortable buzzing in his head, a genial warmth all over him, and an unlimited capacity for carrying any responsibility that could rest on mortal shoulders.  Geoffrey was himself again.

He went round toward the library, to write his letter to Anne—­and so have done with that, to begin with.  The company had collected in the library waiting for the luncheon-bell.  All were idly talking; and some would be certain, if he showed himself, to fasten on him. He turned back again, without showing himself.  The only way of writing in peace and quietness would be to wait until they were all at luncheon, and then return to the library.  The same opportunity would serve also for finding a messenger to take the letter, without exciting attention, and for going away afterward, unseen, on a long walk by himself.  An absence of two or three hours would cast the necessary dust in Arnold’s eyes; for it would be certainly interpreted by him as meaning absence at an interview with Anne.

He strolled idly through the grounds, farther and farther away from the house.

The talk in the library—­aimless and empty enough, for the most part—­was talk to the purpose, in one corner of the room, in which Sir Patrick and Blanche were sitting together.

“Uncle!  I have been watching you for the last minute or two.”

“At my age, Blanche? that is paying me a very pretty compliment.”

“Do you know what I have seen?”

“You have seen an old gentleman in want of his lunch.”