“He is called, I believe—an—ironmaster.” Sir Leicester says it slowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other word expressive of some other relationship to some other metal.
Volumnia utters another little scream.
“He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn being always correct and exact; still that does not,” says Sir Leicester, “that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange considerations—startling considerations, as it appears to me.”
Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicester politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one, and lights it at my Lady’s shaded lamp.
“I must beg you, my Lady,” he says while doing so, “to remain a few moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note”—Sir Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it—“I am bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour of a short interview with yourself and my self on the subject of this young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart tonight, I replied that we would see him before retiring.”
Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her hosts—Oh Lud!—well rid of the—what is it?—ironmaster!
The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir Leicester rings the bell, “Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, in the housekeeper’s apartments, and say I can receive him now.”
My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly, looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over fifty perhaps,