Subsequently, Mrs Rivers and I had a long private conference. She and
the child had again slept at Elsworthy's on the night of the fire, and
Dutton in London. 'His excuse is,' said Mrs Rivers, 'that he cannot
permit us to sleep here unprotected by his presence.' We both arrived
at the same conclusion, and at last agreed upon what should be done,
attempted rather, and that without delay.
Just before taking leave of Mr Dutton, who was in an exceedingly
excited state, I said: 'By the by, Dutton, you have promised to dine
with me on some early day. Let it be next Tuesday. I shall have one or
two bachelor friends, and we can give you a shake-down for the night.'
'Next Tuesday?' said he quickly. 'At what hour do you dine?'
'At six. Not a half-moment later.'
'Good! I will be with you.' We then shook hands, and parted.
The dinner would have been without interest to me, had not a note
previously arrived from Mrs Rivers, stating that she and Annie were
again to sleep that night at Elsworthy's. This promised results.
James Dutton, who rode into town, was punctual, and, as always of
late, flurried, excited, nervous--not, in fact, it appeared to me
precisely in his right mind. The dinner passed off as dinners usually
do, and the after-proceedings went on very comfortably till about
half-past nine o'clock, when Dutton's perturbation, increased perhaps
by the considerable quantity of wine he had swallowed, not drunk,
became, it was apparent to everybody, almost uncontrollable.
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