At eight o’clock uncle and nephew, in glossy shirts and evening-dress, sat down tête-à-tête, to enjoy their oysters.
“And what about Mrs. Buckingham Brune?” inquired Sir Richard.
“She took it better than I expected. At first I thought she was going to strike me, and I was in for a bad time; but when she heard that Wantage was no pauper, and that his maternal uncle was a duke, she calmed down, and I expect after a little time they will be all right. She actually got the Peerage and looked him up on the spot—my word did not count! However, we parted friends; and she sent me over in the car and offered me a splendid reference.”
“Oh, so you got round her! And what are your own plans, my boy?”
“The agency—and Wynyard—and——”
“Oh, that’s of course,” he interrupted; “but I mean now—to-morrow?”
“To-morrow I’d like to run up to Lossiemouth.”
“For golf—yes; but why not Berwick? It’s much handier!”
“Well, you see, Uncle Dick, I’m not specially interested in any one in Berwick; but there’s a girl up north that interests me more than any one in the world.”
“Ah!” hastily emptying his champagne glass, and putting it down with a jerk.