"You did; you always do," said Drake. "It was quite irresistible."
Lord Northgate, who was the "Harry" alluded to, came up and gave Drake a warm grip of the hand.
"What the deuce are you doing here?" he asked. "Thought you were shooting down at Monkwell's place, or somewhere. Jolly glad Lucy didn't take my bet. And where have you been?"
"With the Devon and Somerset," replied Drake, with partial truth.
"Wish I had!" grumbled Northgate. "Kept at the Office." He was in the Cabinet. "There's always some beastly row, or little war, just going on when one wants to get at the salmon or the grouse. I declare to goodness that I work like a nigger and get nothing but kicks for halfpence! I'd chuck politics to-morrow if it weren't for Lucy; and why on earth she likes to be shut in town, and sweltering in hot rooms, playing this kind of game, I can't imagine."
"But then you haven't a strong imagination, Harry, dear," said his wife pleasantly.
"I've got a strong thirst on me," said Northgate, "and a still stronger desire to cut this show. Come down to the smoking room and have a cigar presently, old chap."
Drake knew that this was equivalent to saying, "I'm sorry for you, old man!" and nodded comprehendingly.
"You're looking very well, Drake," said Lady Northgate, as her husband, struggling with a fearful yawn, sauntered away. "And not at all unhappy."
Drake shrugged his shoulders.