"What has become of that boy?" said Mrs. Luttrell. "He is not generally so late. Richard, do you know?"
"I'll tell you afterwards, mother," answered her son, in a low tone. "Don't say anything more about him just now."
"Is there anything wrong?" said his mother, also lowering her voice. But he had turned away.
"Brian, what is it?" she asked, impatiently.
"For Heaven's sake, don't ask Brian," said Richard, looking back over his shoulder, "there is no knowing what he may not require you to believe. Leave the story to me."
"I've no desire to tell it," replied Brian, moving away.
Luttrell's friends were already outside the hall door, lighting their cigars and playing with the dogs. A keeper stood in the background, waiting until the party should start.
"Aren't you coming, Brian?" said one of the young men.
"I'll join you presently," said Brian. "I am going down to the loch first to get out the boat."
"What a splendid gun that is of yours!" said Archie Grant, the younger of the two men. "It is yours, is it not? I saw it in the corner of the hall as I came in. You had it the other day at the Duke's."
"Let me have a look at it again; it's an awfully fine one."
"Are you ready, Grant?" said Richard Luttrell, coming forward. "What are you looking for?"
"Oh, nothing; a gun," said the young fellow. "I see it's gone. I thought it was there when I first came in; it's of no consequence."
"Yes; rather a fine one," said Richard, indifferently. "You're not coming, then?"--to Brian--"well, perhaps it's as well." And he marched away without deigning to bestow another look or word upon his brother.
Five minutes afterwards, Mrs. Luttrell and Angela encountered each other in a passage leading to one of the upper rooms. No one was near. Mrs. Luttrell--she was a tall, handsome woman, strikingly like Richard, in spite of her snow-white hair--laid her hand gently on Angela's shoulder.
"Why do you look so pale, Angela?" she said. "Your eyes are red, child. Have you been crying because those ill-bred lads of mine could not keep a still tongue in their heads at the luncheon-table, but must needs wrangle together as they used to when they were just babies? Never you mind, my dear; it's not Richard's fault, and Brian was always a troublesome lad. It will be better for us all when he's away at his books in London."