He received no answer, the Master being so busily engaged in marking the various changes which had taken place in the apartment, that he hardly heard the Lord Keeper address him.  A repetition of the offer of refreshment, with the addition, that the family meal would be presently ready, compelled his attention, and reminded him that he acted a weak, perhaps even a ridiculous, part in suffering himself to be overcome by the circumstances in which he found himself.  He compelled himself, therefore, to enter into conversation with Sir William Ashton, with as much appearance of indifference as he could well command.

“You will not be surprised, Sir William, that I am interested in the changes you have made for the better in this apartment.  In my father’s time, after our misfortunes compelled him to live in retirement, it was little used, except by me as a play-room, when the weather would not permit me to go abroad.  In that recess was my little workshop, where I treasured the few carpenters’ tools which old Caleb procured for me, and taught me how to use; there, in yonder corner, under that handsome silver sconce, I kept my fishing-rods and hunting poles, bows and arrows.”

“I have a young birkie,” said the Lord Keeper, willing to change the tone of the conversation, “of much the same turn.  He is never happy save when he is in the field.  I wonder he is not here.  Here, Lockhard; send William Shaw for Mr. Henry.  I suppose he is, as usual, tied to Lucy’s apron-string; that foolish girl, Master, draws the whole family after her at her pleasure.”

Even this allusion to his daughter, though artfully thrown out, did not recall Ravenswood from his own topic.  “We were obliged to leave,” he said, “some armour and portraits in this apartment; may I ask where they have been removed to?”

“Why,” answered the Keeper, with some hesitation, “the room was fitted up in our absence, and cedant arma togae is the maxim of lawyers, you know:  I am afraid it has been here somewhat too literally complied with.  I hope—­I believe they are safe, I am sure I gave orders; may I hope that when they are recovered, and put in proper order, you will do me the honour to accept them at my hand, as an atonement for their accidental derangement?”

The Master of Ravenswood bowed stiffly, and, with folded arms, again resumed his survey of the room.

Henry, a spoilt boy of fifteen, burst into the room, and ran up to his father.  “Think of Lucy, papa; she has come home so cross and so fractious, that she will not go down to the stable to see my new pony, that Bob Wilson brought from the Mull of Galloway.”

“I think you were very unreasonable to ask her,” said the Keeper.

“Then you are as cross as she is,” answered the boy; “but when mamma comes home, she’ll claw up both your mittens.”

“Hush your impertinence, you little forward imp!” said his father; “where is your tutor?”