About a quarter-past eight a figure rapped at the dining-room window:
it was the young Duke. The fat butler seemed astonished, not to say
shocked, at this violation of etiquette; nevertheless, he slowly opened
the window.
'Anything the matter, George? Where is May?'
'Nothing. We lost our way. That is all. May--Miss Dacre desired me to
say, that she would not join us at dinner.'
'I am sure, something has happened.'
'I assure you, my dear sir, nothing, nothing at all the least
unpleasant, but we took the wrong turning. All my fault.'
'Shall I send for the soup?'
'No. I am not hungry, I will take some wine.' So saying, his Grace
poured out a tumbler of claret.
'Shall I take your Grace's hat?' asked the fat butler.
'Dear me! have I my hat on?'
This was not the only evidence afforded by our hero's conduct that his
presence of mind had slightly deserted him. He was soon buried in a deep
reverie, and sat with a full plate, but idle knife and fork before him,
a perfect puzzle to the fat butler, who had hitherto considered his
Grace the very pink of propriety.
'George, you have eaten no dinner,' said Mr.
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