“I can tell you, then,” ejaculated Walter with acidity: “it's packing up all the things you would have in the ordinary course at luncheon in a comfortable manner--except the bread, or something equally necessary, which is always left behind--and carrying them about six miles to the top of an unprotected hill--in this particular case, to a tower without a roof to it--there to be eaten without tables or chairs, and in positions the most likely to produce indigestion that the human body can adapt itself to.” “I have always been told that being in a bad humour is the most certain thing to cause what you eat to disagree with you,” observed Letty demurely.--“Never mind what Walter says. I am sure you will be delighted, dear Rose; we are going to Belcomb, a sort of shooting-box belonging to us, about five miles away, and built by grandpapa.” “Commonly termed 'Lisgard's Folly,'” added Master Walter. “Not by his descendants, however, I should hope, with one exception,” observed Sir Richard haughtily.--“I will thank you, Walter, not to cut my newspaper.” Master Walter had seized the paper-knife as though it had been a more deadly weapon, and was engaged in disembowelling one of a multiplicity of newspapers which had just arrived by post. “I did not see it was yours,” returned he. “Goodness knows, nobody wants to read the _Court Journal_ but yourself. The idea of not liking one's newspaper cut!” “Yes, I must say, my dear Richard,” said Letty, playfully patting her elder brother, next to whom she sat, upon the shoulder, “that is a most singular objection of yours, I think it certainly proves that you will always remain an old bachelor.” Sir Richard maintained a frowning silence. Master Walter twirled his silken moustache, and looked up at Miss Aynton with a meaning smile. “What is your opinion upon the subject,” said he, “Miss Rose?” “Insolent!” exclaimed Sir Richard, rising so hastily that he knocked over the chair on which he had been sitting. “How dare you ask such questions in my presence?” “Richard, Richard!” cried a reproving voice; and lo! at the open door stood my Lady, hollow-eyed and pale, and with such a weariness and melancholy in her tones as would have touched most hearts.--“Am I ever to find you and Walter quarrelling thus?--Yes, I have heard all, and think you both to blame; but nothing can excuse this violence. If I have any authority in this house at all, not another word, I beg.” Sir Richard bit his lip, but resumed his seat; Walter went on quietly dissecting the _Illustrated London News_, with an air of intense interest; Miss Aynton very accurately traced the pattern of her plate with her fork; Letty, the innocent cause of the outbreak, shed silent tears. Altogether, the family picture was gloomy, and the situation embarrassing. My Lady reaped this advantage, however, that nobody asked her a word about her expedition to Dalwynch.