The man smiled with a certain good-natured perception of the humour in the situation. "It's duty keeps me as much as pleasure," said he.
"Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest, eh? This hotel seems to follow that rule with a vengeance. But I'll take the will for the deed. Strange as it may seem" (Loveland was enjoying his own sarcasm) "I want you to go."
"Very sorry I can't oblige you."
"Confound you, do you think I'll set the place on fire the minute your back is turned?"
"Not so much that as—there are other things you might do."
"What other things? Really I should like to know, for the sake of curiosity."
"Well, if you're bound to get it out of me, I've got to stay and see you don't remove any articles of value."
"By Jove! So that's it? My own, or yours?"
"What's yours is ours at present, and what's ours is our own—as the bride said to the bridegroom."
Val could almost have laughed, though not at the joke. He—the Marquis of Loveland, an officer in the Grenadier Guards—was to be watched lest he should steal the hotel soap, or sneak off with his own toothbrush!