“But my dear doctor, I can’t even begin to—”
“Miss Auriol’s a prize patient,” interrupted Dr Pryce. “Good constitution, good pluck, good intelligence. By the way—”
King Smith came out to tell them that supper was ready.
CHAPTER VIII
Lord Charles Baringstoke stretched himself in a lounge-chair on the verandah. It was eleven in the morning, and he had the tired meditative feeling of one who has risen too early. The parrot, who had been sitting for some minutes motionless on its perch, swayed backwards and forwards, considering its repertoire. It produced a plausible imitation of the drawing of a cork.
“Yes,” said Lord Charles Baringstoke, wearily, “that’s rather what I think myself.”
Mr Mandelbaum waddled out to survey the morning. Between his fingers he held a cigar, slightly bloated and rather doubtful, and in these respects curiously like its proprietor.
“Well, my young frient,” said Mandelbaum, “I make myself a good breakfast zis morning.”
“Gross feeder—what? I say, ain’t Soames Pryce ever comin’ back?”