“You’ll have some supper, Tredethlyn?” he said, while Francis was shaking hands with some of the men. They were all known to him, and all knew his story, and had a pretty clear idea that Harcourt was what they called “cleaning him out,” in the most approved style by which the process can be performed. “These things are all cold, I’m afraid. Jones, run across and get some fresh oysters, and you can order another spatch-cock--to be ready in a quarter of an hour at the latest. Sit down, dear boy. What the deuce have you been doing with yourself all night? Give him elbow-room, Harding, that’s a good fellow, and don’t knock your ashes on to this corner of the table-cloth just yet. Now, then, Philcote, the ‘Last Rose of Summer’ as soon as you like; but you may as well make up your mind what key you’ll sing it in _before_ you begin.” Francis called back the man as he was hurrying from the room. “Stop!” he cried; “you needn’t order anything more--for me. I shan’t eat supper to-night.” Something in his tone arrested every other voice; and there was a silence as sudden and as complete as if some magician had waved his wand and changed Harcourt Lowther’s guests into stone. Something in his look attracted every eye, and held it fixed in a wondering stare upon his face. Mr. Philcote, who fancied himself an amateur Sims Reeves, was disturbed in his calculation of that vocal bullfinch to be cleared between the third and fourth notes of the “Last Rose of Summer,” and abandoned all thoughts of singing his favourite ballad. The Cornishman’s colourless face and disordered hair and dress might have suggested the idea that he had been drinking; but there was an inscrutable something in that white face which was not compatible with drunkenness. Harcourt Lowther looked at him nervously. The marital quarrel had come off, evidently, and Francis took matters very seriously. “Come, Mr. Troublefeast,” cried the host, “we’re not going to stand this sort of thing, you know. We’ll have no statue of the Commander stalking in upon us in the midst of our fun--without Mozart. What the deuce is the matter with you, dear boy? Roderick, pass that tankard this way, will you? You fellows down there contrive to keep everything to yourself. Let the rosy vintage circulate. There’s another half-dozen of the claret in the next room, and no end of lemons. So the moment for the selfishness of the savage to overpower the civilization of the gentleman has not arrived. Come, Frank, take down the shutters, and light up; you’ve made us all as quiet as the frozen crew described by that pertinacious old bore, the Ancient Mariner. Take a long dip into that tankard, old fellow, and come up bright again.”