To the eyes of Wilton it was very evident that Lord Byerdale was extremely irritated by what he had heard.  No one else perceived it, however, for, as was usual with him, the irritation of the moment, though likely to produce very serious effects at an after period, clothed itself for the time in additional smiles and stately courtesies, only appearing now and then in an additional drop of sarcastic bitterness mingling with all the civil things that he said.  As usual, also, he was peculiarly soft and reverential in his manner towards those with whom he was most angry, and the Duke and Lady Laura were more the objects of his particular attention than ever.  He sat beside her; he talked to her; he paid her that marked attention which his son had neglected to offer; and at length, when the Duke proposed to retire, he himself handed her to the carriage, paying her some well turned compliment at every step, and relieving his heart of its bitterness by some stinging sneer at the rest of womankind.

Thus passed over the evening; and Wilton, it must be acknowledged with a mind more at ease on account of the decided part that Lady Laura seemed to have taken, slept soundly and dreamt happily, though he still resolved, sooner or later, to crush feelings which could only end in misery.

On the following morning he went to the house of Lord Byerdale at the usual hour, and proceeded at once to the cabinet of the Earl.  It was already occupied by that nobleman and his son, however; and though there were no loud words spoken, no angry tones audible, yet there were sufficient indications of angry feeling, at least on the part of the Earl, to make Wilton immediately pause and draw back a step.

“Come in, come in,” said the Earl—­“you know all this affair, and I believe have done what you could to make this young man reasonable.”

Wilton accordingly entered the room, and Lord Byerdale again turned to his son, laying his finger upon the letter before him.  “I repeat, Sherbrooke,” he said, “that you yourself have done all this.  I did not ask you, sir, to be virtuous, I did not ask you to be temperate, I did not bid you cast away the dice or abandon drunkenness and revelling, or turn off three or four of your mistresses, or to give over going to the resort of every sort of vice in the metropolis.  I asked you none of these things, because it would be hard and ungenerous to require a man to do what his nature and habits render perfectly impossible.  I turn to his vomit again, or the sow to refrain from wallowing in the mire.”

“Savoury similes, my lord,” said Lord Sherbrooke—­“most worthy of Solomon and your lordship.  May I ask what it is you did demand then?”

“That you should assume a virtue if you had it not,” replied Lord Byerdale; “that you should put a certain cloak of decency over your vices, and that you should at least be commonly courteous to the person selected for your future wife:  especially when I pointed out to you the immense, the inconceivable advantages of such an alliance not only to you but to me.”