“Shoots me!” said Lord Borodaile, very quietly,—“me! no! that is quite out of the question; but joking apart, Bobus, I will not kill the young man. Where shall I hit him?”
“In the cap of the knee,” said Mr. Percy, breaking an egg.
“Nay, that will lame him for life,” said Lord Borodaile, putting on his cravat with peculiar exactitude.
“Serve him right,” said Mr. Bobus. “Hang him, I never got up so early in my life: it is quite impossible to eat at this hour. Oh!—a propos, Borodaile, have you left any little memoranda for me to execute?”
“Memoranda!—for what?” said Borodaile, who had now just finished his toilet.
“Oh!” rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus, “in case of accident, you know: the man may shoot well, though I never saw him in the gallery.”
“Pray,” said Lord Borodaile, in a great though suppressed passion, “pray, Mr. Bobus, how often have I to tell you that it is not by Mr. Linden that my days are to terminate: you are sure that Carabine saw to that trigger?”
“Certain,” said Mr. Percy, with his mouth full, “certain. Bless me, here’s the carriage, and breakfast not half done yet.”
“Come, come,” cried Borodaile, impatiently, “we must breakfast afterwards. Here, Roberts, see that we have fresh chocolate and some more cutlets when we return.”
“I would rather have them now,” said Mr. Bobus, foreseeing the possibility of the return being single: “Ibis! redibis?” etc.