But when we came next to the order in which the dishes were to be served—” Miss Notman paused in the middle of the sentence, and shuddered over the private and poignant recollections which the order of the dishes called up.
By this time Father Benwell had discovered his mistake.
He took a mean advantage of Miss Notman’s susceptibilities to slip his own private inquiries into the interval of silence.
“Pardon my ignorance,” he said; “my own poor dinner is a matter of ten minutes and one dish.
I don’t understand a difference of opinion on a dinner for three people only; Lord and Lady Loring, two; Mr. Romayne, three—oh! perhaps I am mistaken?
Perhaps Miss Eyrecourt makes a fourth?”
“Certainly, Father!”
“A very charming person, Miss Notman.
I only speak as a stranger. You, no doubt, are much better acquainted with Miss Eyrecourt?”
“Much better, indeed—if I may presume to say so,” Miss Notman replied.
“She is my lady’s intimate friend; we have often talked of Miss Eyrecourt during the many years of my residence in this house.
On such subjects, her ladyship treats me quite on the footing of a humble friend.
A complete contrast to the tone she took, Father, when we came to the order of the dishes.
We agreed, of course, about the soup and the fish; but we had a little, a very little, divergence of opinion, as I may call it, on the subject of the dishes to follow.
Her ladyship said,
‘First the sweetbreads, and then the cutlets.’
I ventured to suggest that the sweetbreads, as white meat, had better not immediately follow the turbot, as white fish.
‘The brown meat, my lady,’ I said, ‘as an agreeable variety presented to the eye, and then the white meat, recalling pleasant remembrances of the white fish.’
You see the point, Father?”
“I see, Miss Notman, that you are a consummate mistress of an art which is quite beyond poor me.
Was Miss Eyrecourt present at the little discussion?”
“Oh, no!
Indeed, I should have objected to her presence; I should have said she was a young lady out of her proper place.”
“Yes; I understand.
Is Miss Eyrecourt an only child?”
“She had two sisters, Father Benwell.
One of them is in a convent.”
“Ah, indeed?”
“And the other is dead.”
“Sad for the father and mother, Miss Notman!”
“Pardon me, sad for the mother, no doubt.
The father died long since.”
“Aye? aye?
A sweet woman, the mother?
At least, I think I have heard so.”
Miss Notman shook her head.
“I should wish to guard myself against speaking unjustly of any one,” she said; “but when you talk of ‘a sweet woman,’ you imply (as it seems to me) the domestic virtues.
Mrs. Eyrecourt is essentially a frivolous person.”
A frivolous person is, in the vast majority of cases, a person easily persuaded to talk, and not disposed to be reticent in keeping secrets.
Father Benwell began to see his way already to the necessary information.
“Is Mrs. Eyrecourt living in London?” he inquired.
“Oh, dear, no!
At this time of year she lives entirely in other people’s houses—goes from one country seat to another, and only thinks of amusing herself.
No domestic qualities, Father.
She would know nothing of the order of the dishes!
Lady Loring, I should have told you, gave way in the matter of the sweetbread.
It was only at quite the latter part of my ‘Menoo’ (as the French call it) that she showed a spirit of opposition—well! well!
I won’t dwell on that. I will only ask you, Father, at what part of a dinner an oyster-omelet ought to be served?”
Father Benwell seized his opportunity of discovering Mrs. Eyrecourt’s present address.
“My dear lady,” he said, “I know no more when the omelet ought to be served than Mrs. Eyrecourt herself!