“You would oblige me vastly, fellow, if you would do me the favour to open this door,” said the voice.
“Who is it? What is it?” asked the scandalised Sir Charles, with his arrested elbow still pointing upwards.
Ambrose had returned with as much surprise upon his dark face as the etiquette of his position would allow him to show.
“It is a young gentleman, Sir Charles.”
“A young gentleman? There is no one in London who is not aware that I do not show before midday. Do you know the person? Have you seen him before?”
“I have not seen him, sir, but he is very like some one I could name.”
“Like some one? Like whom?”
“With all respect, Sir Charles, I could for a moment have believed that it was yourself when I looked down. A smaller man, sir, and a youth; but the voice, the face, the bearing—”
“It must be that young cub Vereker, my brother’s ne’er-do-weel,” muttered Sir Charles, continuing his toilet. “I have heard that there are points in which he resembles me. He wrote from Oxford that he would come, and I answered that I would not see him. Yet he ventures to insist. The fellow needs a lesson! Ambrose, ring for Perkins.”
A large footman entered with an outraged expression upon his face.