“The difficulties are my difficulties and yours,” answered Sir Patrick.  “My difficulty is, that I can’t assert my authority, as guardian, if I assume my niece (as I do) to be a married woman.  Your difficulty is, that you can’t assert your authority as her husband, until it is distinctly proved that you and Miss Silvester are not man and wife.  Lady Lundie was perfectly aware that she would place us in that position, when she removed Blanche from this house.  She has cross-examined Mrs. Inchbare; she has written to your steward for the date of your arrival at your estate; she has done every thing, calculated every thing, and foreseen every thing—­except my excellent temper.  The one mistake she has made, is in thinking she could get the better of that. No, my dear boy!  My trump card is my temper.  I keep it in my hand, Arnold—­I keep it in my hand!”

The next course came in—­and there was an end of the subject again.  Sir Patrick enjoyed his mutton, and entered on a long and interesting narrative of the history of some rare white Burgundy on the table imported by himself.  Arnold resolutely resumed the discussion with the departure of the mutton.

“It seems to be a dead lock,” he said.

“No slang!” retorted Sir Patrick.

“For Heaven’s sake, Sir, consider my anxiety, and tell me what you propose to do!”

“I propose to take you to London with me to-morrow, on this condition—­that you promise me, on your word of honor, not to attempt to see your wife before Saturday next.”

“I shall see her then?”

“If you give me your promise.”

“I do!  I do!”

The next course came in.  Sir Patrick entered on the question of the merits of the partridge, viewed as an eatable bird, “By himself, Arnold—­plainly roasted, and tested on his own merits—­an overrated bird.  Being too fond of shooting him in this country, we become too fond of eating him next.  Properly understood, he is a vehicle for sauce and truffles—­nothing more.  Or no—­that is hardly doing him justice.  I am bound to add that he is honorably associated with the famous French receipt for cooking an olive.  Do you know it?”

There was an end of the bird; there was an end of the jelly.  Arnold got his next chance—­and took it.

“What is to be done in London to-morrow?” he asked.

“To-morrow,” answered Sir Patrick, “is a memorable day in our calendar.  To-morrow is Tuesday—­the day on which I am to see Miss Silvester.”

Arnold set down the glass of wine which he was just raising to his lips.

“After what has happened,” he said, “I can hardly bear to hear her name mentioned.  Miss Silvester has parted me from my wife.”

“Miss Silvester may atone for that, Arnold, by uniting you again.”

“She has been the ruin of me so far.”

“She may be the salvation of you yet.”

The cheese came in; and Sir Patrick returned to the Art of Cookery.