He started, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him, not very certain for some minutes where he was. The hum of the bees, the oppressive perfume of the sweetbriar and the jessamine, and the gentle drip-drip of a little trickling rivulet over some rock-work, seemed still to steep his senses in a pleasant dreamy languor, and a sort of terror seized him that the ladies might possibly have come in, and found him there asleep. He rang the bell and summoned Rickards at once. “Where are the ladies?” asked he, eagerly. “Not come back yet, Sir. It’s very seldom they stay out so long. I can make nothing of it.” “You told her Ladyship I was here, didn’t you?” “I told Miss Georgina, Sir, and of course she told my Lady.” “What’s your dinner-hour?” “Always early, Sir, when Sir Gervais is from home. My Lady likes four, or half-past.” “And it’s five now!” “Yes, Sir; a quarter-past five. It’s the strangest thing I ever knew,” said he, going to the window, which commanded a view of the road at several of its windings through the valley. “We have an excellent lake trout for dinner; but by good luck it’s to be grilled, not boiled, or it would be ruined utterly.” “Capital things, those red trout,” said M’Kinlay, to whom, like most of his craft and way of life, the pleasures of the table offered great temptations. “Is your cook a good one, Rickards?” “Only a woman, Sir; but by no means bad. Sir Gervais always takes M. Honoré with him on board the yacht; but you’ll see, Sir, that she knows how to roast, and we have a sweet saddle of Welsh mutton to-day, if it’s not over-done.” “That’s what I’m afraid of, Rickards,” said the lawyer; and if a sigh ever denoted sorrow, his did as he spoke. “Is the mutton small?” “Very small, Sir. Mountain mutton.” “And of course it will be done to rags! She serves it with currant-jelly, I snppose?” “No, Sir, with guava. Sir Gervais prefers it.” “And what else was there on your bill of fare for to-day?” “A very simple dinner, Sir. Partridges on toast, a salad of white truffles, and a roast hare.” “Quite enough, quite enough. Do you bring your wine down with you!” “Only the Madeira, Sir. Sir Gervais gets some claret oyer from an Irish house called Sneyd’s, which he calls very drinkable.” “So do I, too; very drinkable, indeed; and your Madeira, you say, you bring with you. I say, Rickards, I think a glass of it and a biscuit wouldn’t be amiss, if I’m to wait much longer.” “I was just thinking the same, Sir; and if you’ll step into the dining-room and take a morsel of game-pie, I’ll fetch the Madeira out of the sun. It’s fine and mellow by this time.” “Is this your woman cook’s performance?” said Mr. M’Kinky, as he helped himself for the second time to the pie. “Yes, Sir; and she’d do better, too, if it wasn’t that the ladies don’t like so much jelly. Here’s a fine whole truffle, Sir!”