“I am Sir Gilbert Lawthorn!” burst out the indignant magnate.
“Thank you. Your pickles are excellent,” replied Alistair. And this time he was allowed to read his paper in peace.
When the train stopped at Easterthorpe a groom in neat black livery appeared at the door of the carriage, and touched his hat. Sir Gilbert, who evidently recognized him, took the salute to himself.
“His Royal Highness is not in here,” he proclaimed pompously. “Did you expect him by this train?”
The groom, without replying, took the case which Lord Alistair passed out to him.
“This way, my lord, if you please,” he said deferentially, as Alistair prepared to follow his luggage.
The baronet turned crimson.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered awkwardly, half holding out his hand. “I had no idea that you were going to stay with the Prince.”
But Alistair was not in a merciful mood as far as the middle class was concerned.
“Who the devil do you suppose cares what you think, or who you are, or anything about you? I wish I had come third class.”