There seemed to have been no previous opportunity.
Mr. Carr had arrived late on the Friday night; indeed it was Saturday
morning, for the trains were all detained; and he and Hartledon sat up
together to an unconscionable hour. For this short visit he was Lord
Hartledon's guest. Saturday seemed to have been given to preparation,
to gaiety, and to nothing else. Perhaps also Lady Hartledon did not wish
to mar that day by an unpleasant word. The little child was christened;
the names given him being Edward Kirton: the countess-dowager, who was in
a chronic state of dissatisfaction with everything and every one, angrily
exclaimed at the last moment, that she thought at least her family name
might have been given to the child; and Lord Hartledon interposed, and
said, give it. Lord and Lady Hartledon, and Mr. Carr, were the sponsors:
and it would afford food for weeks of grumbling to the old dowager.
Hilarity reigned, and toasts were given to the new heir of Hartledon;
and the only one who seemed not to enter into the spirit of the thing,
but on the contrary to be subdued, absent, nervous, was the heir's
father.
And so it went on to the Sunday morning. A cold, bleak, bitter morning,
the wind howling, the snow flying in drifts. Mr. Carr went to church,
and he was the only one of the party in the house who did go. The
countess-dowager the previous night had proclaimed the fact that _she_
meant to go--as a sort of reproach to any who meant to keep away.
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