"That train's late, Grey," said the duke with a painfully poor attempt at indifference. "It always is late. See that I write to the Traffic Director about it, will you? It is something shameful the way this line is mismanaged. It must be twenty minutes late, I know!"
"Not quite, your grace; about a quarter, I should say," said Grey, pulling out his watch.
"Oh, put that watch away!" said the duke. "You have lugged it out twenty times during the last half hour. Do you think I haven't seen you? I wish to heaven you'd go away if you must fidget."
"Beg pardon, your grace," said Grey from behind, and hiding a smile. "Shall I wheel your grace in, the air is rather——."
"Nonsense! It's as hot as—as a furnace. Are they coming yet? They seem to forget that I'm a director of this beastly line! By George, I'll go down to their next board meeting and make it hot for them! More accidents occur from the unpunctuality of trains than anything else. Ah, what's that?"
"They're coming, your grace!" exclaimed Grey.
The duke made a movement as if he were about to rise, then he sank back with a sigh.
"Go and tell them; they can't see as well as we can. See that everything is ready."
"Yes, your grace; but there's no need, they've seen the carriage," he added, as the servants began to move about like a hive of bees, and then, as if by mutual consent, swarmed upon the principal flight of steps from the terrace.
The carriage, with its four white horses, swept along the avenue, the postilions cracking their whips and keeping their steeds at a smart gallop; and presently Yorke, who had been leaning forward, said: