Everard’s wrath was ever of a complexion that could suffer postponements without his having to fear an abatement of it.  He had no business to transact in London, and he had much at the Castle, so he yielded himself up to his new sensations, which are not commonly the portion of gentlemen of his years.  He anticipated that Nevil would at least come down to the funeral, but there was no appearance of him, nor a word to excuse his absence.  Cecil was his only supporter.  They walked together between the double ranks of bare polls of the tenantry and peasantry, resembling in a fashion old Froissart engravings the earl used to dote on in his boyhood, representing bodies of manacled citizens, whose humbled heads looked like nuts to be cracked, outside the gates of captured French towns, awaiting the disposition of their conqueror, with his banner above him and prancing knights around.  That was a glory of the past.  He had no successor.  The thought was chilling; the solitariness of childlessness to an aged man, chief of a most ancient and martial House, and proud of his blood, gave him the statue’s outlook on a desert, and made him feel that he was no more than a whirl of the dust, settling to the dust.

He listened to the parson curiously and consentingly.  We are ashes.  Ten centuries had come to an end in him to prove the formula correct.  The chronicle of the House would state that the last Earl of Romfrey left no heir.

Cecil was a fine figure walking beside him.  Measured by feet, he might be a worthy holder of great lands.  But so heartily did the earl despise this nephew that he never thought of trying strength with the fellow, and hardly cared to know what his value was, beyond his immediate uses as an instrument to strike with.  Beauchamp of Romfrey had been his dream, not Baskelett:  and it increased his disgust of Beauchamp that Baskelett should step forward as the man.  No doubt Cecil would hunt the county famously:  he would preserve game with the sleepless eye of a General of the Jesuits.  These things were to be considered.

Two days after the funeral Lord Romfrey proceeded to London.  He was met at the station by Rosamund, and informed that his house was not yet vacated by the French family.

‘And where have you arranged for me to go, ma’am?’ he asked her complacently.

She named an hotel where she had taken rooms for him.

He nodded, and was driven to the hotel, saying little on the road.

As she expected, he was heavily armed against her and Nevil.

’You’re the slave of the fellow, ma’am.  You are so infatuated that you second his amours, in my house.  I must wait for a clearance, it seems.’

He cast a comical glance of disapprobation on the fittings of the hotel apartment, abhorring gilt.

‘They leave us the day after to-morrow,’ said Rosamund, out of breath with nervousness at the commencement of the fray, and skipping over the opening ground of a bold statement of facts.  ’Madame de Rouaillout has been unwell.  She is not yet recovered; she has just risen.  Her sister-in-law has nursed her.  Her husband seems much broken in health; he is perfect on the points of courtesy.’