“Thanks,—with pleasure!” said Everage, who always keenly appreciated and enjoyed the game, the salads, and the wines at Véry’s; but—then he glanced at his rusty, threadbare coat, his dusty old boots, and his day-before-yesterday’s clean shirt-bosom. “Oh, never mind your dress, man! Who the mischief ever dresses to go to lunch in the morning?—Cab!” The empty hansom that was passing drew up. The two gentlemen got in to it, and Alexander gave the order: “Véry’s, corner of Regent and Oxford streets.” Arrived at the famous restaurant, Alexander told the cabman to wait, and led his friend into the saloon. There curtained off in a snug recess, and seated at a neat table, upon which was arranged a relishing repast, Alexander, while making a slight pretense of eating and drinking, told his story, or part of it to Clarence Everage, who listened attentively, even while doing full justice to the good things set before him. “You will understand now,” said Lord Killcrichtoun, in conclusion, “how it is, that though I am a husband and a father, I have neither wife nor child.” “That is very deplorable, if it is really so,” said the poor man, with a real compassion for sorrows that he was inclined to consider much heavier than he had been called upon to endure. For what, he asked himself, were the worst pangs of toil, care and want compared to the grief that would be his portion should he, in any way, lose his own fond wife and dear children?—“Very, very lamentable, if it is indeed true! but let us hope it is not so; that your imagination exaggerates the circumstance. Let us trust that the quarrel is not irreconcilable; that the husband has still a wife, the father still a child.” “No, I have no wife nor ever shall have one; for though Drusilla is neither dead nor divorced, she is hopelessly estranged from me. I have no wife, nor ever shall have one.” “But you have a child. He at least is not estranged from you.” “No, but he belongs to his mother who bore him in peril of her own life, and has nurtured him tenderly and loves him fondly, I know. He belongs to her.” “But the _law_ gives him to you. You can claim him when you will.” “But I would cut off my right hand, I would lay down my life, before I would take him from his mother, or do anything else to give her pain.” “But, man, he is your heir!” “Yes, he is my heir, and only child. If he should live, of course he will inherit Killcrichtoun. If he should not, why the barony will go to some distant branch of the family, unearthed in the investigation set on foot by my lawyers, when I laid claim to the title and estates. And—why, bless my soul, old fellow, it may go to you! May it not?” “Failing yourself and heirs of your body, it may,” replied the poor gentleman, gravely. And then he pushed back his chair and showed signs of impatience to be off. The usher was allowed but half an hour to take his lunch, and even now he was due at his schoolroom and in danger of a reprimand from his principal.