“Of course, you consented!” quietly laughed Jack.
“Ahem! Unfortunately I had instructed my secretary to ‘clear’ the yacht for the north this evening, and as all arrangements were complete, must beg, with profound regrets” (and he bent low with courtly grace) “to decline the pleasure. Should you be visiting England next summer, my cordial invitation to rest a month or so at—a—Beauchamp, Isle of Wight.”
“And you—”
“Beckoned a passing cab; bade them ‘adieu’ and drove on a few blocks.”
“I congratulate you on your iron-clad nerve,” laughingly remarked Jack. “And you withdrew with your new title,—a—me Lord Beauchamp, sitting jauntily, like a chip on your shoulder,—undisturbed.”
“How could I do otherwise? You know I am opposed to shocks, but seriously, Jack, the incident has suggested a way out of our embarrassment.”
“How?”
“By carrying the thing on and be a lord in fact, with you as my secretary.”
Jack laughed, low and yet with a heartiness that was rollicking in its abandon, and then added by way of parenthesis:
“I shall announce ‘Your Grace’s’ intention to visit Portland.”