The landlord himself brought in a bottle of claret, which
actually was sound, and another of port, in a wicker cradle, which even
Howard deigned to approve of; and the two men, after they had lingered
over their dinner, got into easy-chairs beside the fire and smoked
their cigars with that sweet contentment which only tobacco can
produce, and only then when it follows a really good meal.
"Do you know how long you are going to stay in your father's little
place?" Howard asked, after a long and dreary silence.
Stafford shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"'Pon my word, I don't know," he answered. "I'm like the school-boy: 'I
don't know nothink.' I suppose I shall stay as long as the governor
does; and, come to that, I suppose he doesn't know how long that will
be. I've got to regard him as a kind of stormy petrel; here to-day and
gone to-morrow, always on the wing, and never resting anywhere for any
time. I'm never surprised when I hear that, though his last letter was
dated Africa, he has flown back to Europe or has run over to
Australia."
"Y-es," said Howard, musingly, "there is an atmosphere of mystery and
romance about your esteemed parent, Sir Stephen Orme, which smacks of
the Arabian Nights, my dear Stafford.
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