It was between one and two o’clock when he reached the house and asked to see Mr. and Mrs. George Vyell, They were not at home, the footman said; had left for Falmouth the evening before to join some friends on a yachting cruise. Sir Harry was at home; was, indeed, lunching at that moment; but would no doubt be pleased to see Mr. Raymond.
Sir Harry had finished his lunch, and sat sipping his claret and tossing scraps of biscuits to the dogs.
“Hullo, Raymond!—thought you were in Oxford. Sit down, my boy; delighted to see you. Thomas, a knife and fork for Mr. Raymond. The cutlets are cold, I’m afraid; but I can recommend the cold saddle, and the ham—it’s a York ham. Go to the sideboard and forage for yourself. I wanted company. My boy and Honoria are at Falmouth yachting, and have left me alone. What, you won’t eat? A glass of claret, then, at any rate.”
“To tell the truth, Sir Harry,” Taffy began awkwardly. “I’ve come on a disagreeable business.”
Sir Harry’s face fell. He hated disagreeable business. He flipped a piece of biscuit at his spaniel’s nose and sat back, crossing his legs.
“Won’t it keep?”
“To me it’s important.”
“Oh, fire away then: only help yourself to the claret first.”
“A girl—Lizzie Pezzack, living over at Langona—has had a child born—”
“Stop a moment. Do I know her?—Ah, to be sure—daughter of old Pezzack, the light-keeper—a brown-coloured girl with her hair over her eyes. Well, I’m not surprised. Wants money, I suppose? Who’s the father?”