The verdict went round that the new Duke would “do.”
The service that morning was, it is to be feared, more ducal than devotional. From the white-robed choir, ranged among the tombs of dead-and-gone Hanburys in the chancel, to the hard-breathing rustics on the back benches every eye was turned and steadily kept on the lonely figure in the family pew. While grateful for the homage paid him, the Duke was not sorry when the ordeal was over and he was free to make his way homeward.
But he was not to get off so easily. As he was about to let himself through the private gate into the park, intending to go back, as he had come, through the copse, footsteps sounded behind him, and Mr. Bristow, the vicar, overtook him. They had already met on the previous day.
“Your Grace is alone still?” panted the clergyman. “Ah, I thought your secretary wouldn’t find it so easy to cast his shackles. I am commissioned by Mrs. Bristow to say—I hope you won’t think us presuming—that we shall be delighted if you will give us your company at our homely lunch.”
A sudden impulse prompted Beaumanoir to
[56]
