same instant a door that had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly-dressed, plain, tall man, entered the room. Frank at once knew that he was at last in presence of the Duke of Omnium.
But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host, seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. He quietly stood on the rug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in a very low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him. The crowd, in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent. Frank, when he found that the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought to go and speak to the duke; but no one else did so, and when he whispered his surprise to Mr. Athill, that gentleman told him that this was the duke's practice on all such occasions.
'Fothergill,' said the duke—and it was the only word he had yet spoken out loud—'I believe we are ready for dinner.' Now Mr. Fothergill was the duke's land-agent, and he it was who had greeted Frank and his friends at their entrance.
Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out of the drawing-room into the dining-room was opened. The duke led the way, and then the guests followed. 'Stick close to me, Mr. Gresham,' said Athill, 'we'll get about the middle of the table, where we shall be cosy—and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadful draught—I know the place well, Mr. Gresham; stick to me.'
Mr. Athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated himself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when Mr. Fothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say grace. It seemed to be quite out of the question that the duke should take any trouble with his guests whatever. Mr. Athill consequently dropped the word that he was speaking, and uttered a prayer—if it was a prayer—that they might all have grateful hearts for that which God was about to give them.
If it was a prayer! As far as my own experience goes, such utterances are seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers. And if not prayers, what then? To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest chatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good living, and the Giver thanked becomingly in words of heartfelt praise. Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compass of the human mind? But then, to such reasoning one cannot but add what one does hear and see; one cannot but judge of the ceremony by the manner in which one sees it performed—uttered, that is—and listened to. Clergymen there are—one meets them now and then—who endeavour to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity
