This little confidential aside put Sir Giles in good humour. But when the family retired into the library, which was done by no means in the usual order--for Sir Giles himself in his chair, wheeled by Dunning, led the way--it was evident that an uneasy alarm in respect to Gervase was the leading sentiment in everybody’s mind. Sir Giles announced loudly that it was Dunning, and only Dunning, who should play with him to-night. “I’ve got to give the fellow his revenge,” he said. “I beat him black and blue last night. Eh, Dunning, didn’t I beat you black and blue? You’re not a bad player, but not just up to my strength.” “No, Sir Giles,” answered the man, setting the table in haste, and keeping carefully between it and the heir of the house. Lady Piercey, on her side, employed Parsons and Margaret, both of whom were in attendance, in covering up all her silks. “Put them in the basket,” she said, “and take out one as I want it. That’s always the best way.” Thus defended, the parents kept a furtive watch upon the movements of their son, but with less alarm than before, while Lady Piercey kept on a running exhortation to Mrs. Osborne in an undertone. “Meg! get him to play something. Meg! why don’t you take him in hand! Meg! the boy’s sure to get into mischief for want of something to do.” “Should you like a game of cribbage, Gervase?” said poor Margaret, unable to resist the urgency of this appeal. “Cribbage is the old-fashionedest game; they don’t play it anywhere--even in the publics,” said Gervase. He had put himself in the favourite attitude of Englishmen, with his back to the fireplace; his coat-tails gathered over his arms in faithful adherence to custom, though the cause for any such unseemly custom was not there. “Or bézique?” said Margaret; “or perhaps you’ll sing a song, Gervase, if I play it. Your mother would like to hear you sing: you haven’t sung her a song for years.” “Do, Gervase, there’s a dear,” said Lady Piercey. “You used to sing ‘The north winds do blow, and we shall have snow,’ so pretty when you were quite a little thing.” “I ain’t a little thing now, and I’m not going to sing,” said Gervase loudly. “I’m going to say something to father and mother. You can go away, Meg, if you don’t want to hear.” “What is it?” cried Lady Piercey, sitting up more bolt-upright than usual, and taking off her spectacles to see him the better, and to cow him with the blaze of her angry eyes. “This is what it is,” said Gervase. “It’s mortal dull at home, now that I’ve turned over a new leaf and don’t go out anywhere at night; and a fellow of my age wants a little diversion, and I can’t go on sitting in your pocket, mother, nor playing father’s game every night--and he don’t like losing, neither, and no more don’t I.”