“An excellent, not to say a noble, manner of spending a winter’s day,” quoth the earl.

“I am a sheep farmer myself,” was the reply.

Lord Erymanth really wanted to draw him out, and began to ask about Australian stock-farming, but Harold’s slowness of speech left Eustace to reply to everything, and when once the rage of hunger was appeased, the harangues in a warm room after twenty miles’ walk in the snow, and the carrying some hundreds of sheep one by one in his arms, produced certain nods and snores which were no favourable contrast with Eustace’s rapt attention.

For, honestly, Eustace thought these speeches the finest things he had ever heard, and though he seldom presumed to understand them, he listened earnestly, and even imitated them in a sort of disjointed way.  Now Lord Erymanth, if one could manage to follow him, was always coherent.  His sentences would parse, and went on uniform principles—­namely, the repeating every phrase in finer words, with all possible qualifications; whereas Eustace never accomplished more than catching up some sonorous period; but as his manners were at their best when he was overawed, and nine months in England had so far improved his taste that he did not once refer to his presentation at Government House, he made such an excellent impression that Lord Erymanth announced that he was going to give a ball to introduce his niece, Miss Tracy, on her seventeenth birthday, in January, and invited us all thereto.

Eustace’s ecstacy was unbounded.  He tried to wake Harold to share it, but only produced some murmurs about half-inch bullets:  only when the “Good-night” came did Harold rouse up, and then, of course, he was wide awake; and while Eustace was escorting the distinguished guest to his apartment, we stood over the hall fire, enjoying his delight, and the prospect of his being righted with the county.

“And you will have your friends again, Lucy,” added Harold.

“Yes, I don’t suppose Lady Diana will hold out against him.  He will prepare the way.”

“And,” said Eustace, coming downstairs, “it is absolutely necessary that you go and be measured for a dress suit, Harry.”

“I will certainly never get into this again,” he said, with a thwarted sigh; “it’s all I can do to help splitting it down the back.  You must get it off as you got it on.”

“Not here!” entreated Eustace, alarmed at his gesture.  “Remember the servant.  Oh Harold, if you could but be more the gentleman!  Why cannot you take example by me, instead of overthrowing all the advantageous impressions that such—­such a service has created?  I really think there’s nothing he would not do for me.  Don’t you think so, Lucy?”

“Could he do anything for Prometesky?” asked Harold.

“He could, more than anyone,” I said; “but I don’t know if he would.”

“I’ll see about that.”