“I’m sure I don’t know, Lord De Guest.  At any rate, it isn’t mine.”

So they went to their feast, and before his last chance was over John Eames found himself able to go through the pretence of enjoying his roast mutton.

There can, I think, be no doubt that in all such calamities as that which he was now suffering, the agony of the misfortune is much increased by the conviction that the facts of the case are known to those round about the sufferer.  A most warm-hearted and intensely-feeling young gentleman might, no doubt, eat an excellent dinner after being refused by the girl of his devotions, provided that he had reason to believe that none of those in whose company he ate it knew anything of his rejection.  But the same warm-hearted and intensely-feeling young gentleman would find it very difficult to go through the ceremony with any appearance of true appetite or gastronomic enjoyment, if he were aware that all his convives knew all the facts of his little misfortune.  Generally, we may suppose, a man in such condition goes to his club for his dinner, or seeks consolation in the shades of some adjacent Richmond or Hampton Court.  There he meditates on his condition in silence, and does ultimately enjoy his little plate of whitebait, his cutlet and his moderate pint of sherry.  He probably goes alone to the theatre, and, in his stall, speculates with a somewhat bitter sarcasm on the vanity of the world.  Then he returns home, sad indeed, but with a moderated sadness, and as he puffs out the smoke of his cigar at the open window,—­with perhaps the comfort of a little brandy-and-water at his elbow,—­swears to himself that, “By Jove, he’ll have another try for it.”  Alone, a man may console himself, or among a crowd of unconscious mortals; but it must be admitted that the position of John Eames was severe.  He had been invited down there to woo Lily Dale, and the squire and Bell had been asked to be present at the wooing.  Had it all gone well, nothing could have been nicer.  He would have been the hero of the hour, and everybody would have sung for him his song of triumph.  But everything had not gone well, and he found it very difficult to carry himself otherwise than lackadaisically.  On the whole, however, his effort was such that the earl gave him credit for his demeanour, and told him when parting with him for the night that he was a fine fellow, and that everything should go right with him yet.

“And you mustn’t be angry with me for speaking harshly to you,” he said.

“I wasn’t a bit angry.”

“Yes, you were; and I rather meant that you should be.  But you mustn’t go away in dudgeon.”

He stayed at the Manor House one day longer, and then he returned to his room at the Income-tax Office, to the disagreeable sound of Sir Raffle’s little bell, and the much more disagreeable sound of Sir Raffle’s big voice.

CHAPTER LIX