When Gorman reached the drawing-room, he found only one person. This was a young man in a shooting-coat, who, deep in the recess of a comfortable arm-chair, sat with the Times at his feet, and to all appearance as if half dozing.
He looked around, however, as young O’Shea came forward, and said carelessly, ‘I suppose it’s time to go and dress—if I could.’
O’Shea making no reply, the other added, ‘That is, if I have not overslept dinner altogether.’
‘I hope not, sincerely,’ rejoined the other, ‘or I shall be a partner in the misfortune.’
‘Ah, you ‘re the Austrian,’ said Walpole, as he stuck his glass in his eye and surveyed him.
‘Yes; and you are the private secretary of the Governor.’
‘Only we don’t call him Governor. We say Viceroy here.’
‘With all my heart, Viceroy be it.’
There was a pause now—each, as it were, standing on his guard to resent any liberty of the other. At last Walpole said, ‘I don’t think you were in the house when that stupid stipendiary fellow called here this morning?’
‘No; I was strolling across the fields. He came with the police, I suppose?’