“I see, just to make conversation. The art of conversation is lost, it seems to me; when I think of the sparkle and wit of the conversation of the young men of my day, and contrast it with the conversation of the young men of to-day, I am lost in wonder at what has happened to their brains. Your remark would be interesting if I were a goat fancier, which I am not. But you were never very bright, Richard Fanshawe, even as a boy; I remember that.” “Thanks,” said Dicky, rather huffled, yet still amused at the outspoken old lady, who, when she took a pen in her hand to write an invitation, was most courtly and kind in her manner of expression (_vide_ her note in first chapter of this book), but whose tongue in conversation was direct. “All the brains in your family,” went on Lady Seagrave, “seems to have been absorbed by your uncle, General Grampound. You will see him to-morrow——” “Good gracious!” said Dicky, “is uncle coming here?” “Yes, he is coming as one of my guests.” “Is—Is—Miss Lestrange coming with him?” “She is.” “Oh!” said Dick in a delighted voice. “I beg your pardon—what did you say?” “I only said Oh!” “Oh what?” “Nothing—I meant nothing.” “You could not have meant less. Yes, Miss Lestrange is coming; and Mr Boxall, the Member of Parliament, who is greatly enamoured of Miss Lestrange, is coming too. He is worth seven thousand a year, and I believe, if I have any eyes in my old head, she returns his passion.” Mr Fanshawe groaned. “How old is he?” he asked. “Who?” “Mr Boxall.” “He is only fifty-five,” replied Lady Seagrave; “though the fact of premature baldness adds perhaps to his apparent age. But Violet Lestrange is not frivolous-minded, she can appreciate true worth; and,” finished the old lady grimly, “she has got to marry him, for I have set my heart on the match.” “I suppose you know that I have had a fight with my uncle,” said Dicky in a cheerful voice, for the description of Mr Boxall’s personal appearance had raised his spirits wonderfully. “Yes,” replied Lady Seagrave, “and that is why I asked you here. I want you to make up with him and be friends. Now, like a good boy, go and brush your hair and make yourself tidy. You can amuse yourself in the library with books till dinner-time; I feel sleepy, and want to take my afternoon nap.” The old lady seemed still to imagine Dicky Fanshawe the schoolboy he was twelve years ago, and he, nothing loth, rose and made for the door. In the hall outside he found Patsy Rooney. “Mr James told me to ax you for the keys of your trunks, sir,” said Patsy. “Oh, he did, did he? Well, as I’m going to my room I’ll open my trunks, as you call them, myself. Go on before me and show me the way. What’s your name?” “Patsy Rooney is me name,” replied the other, leading the way upstairs, “but they calls me Patsy for short. I clanes the boots and the windys, and looks afther the childer since the governess was took sick and wint off to the infirmary wid the maisles.”