“I think I should like to see Vyner too; that is, if he would receive me,” said Sir Within, feebly. “Could you manage to catch this Mr. M’Kinlay?”
“Shall we have him to dinner to-day?”
“No; I think not. I’m not equal to it.”
“Suppose you were to try. He’s not a person to make much ceremony with. If he bores you, pretend indisposition, and leave him.”
The old man smiled—a strange, dubious sort of smile it was; perhaps it amused him to receive a lesson in social craft or address from “a Mr. George Grenfell.” At all events, Grenfell read the smile as a partial concurrence with his suggestion, and went on:
“M’Kinlay would be flattered by the invitation; and, if you should want him in any other way, he will be all the more tractable.”
“That is certainly something,” replied he, musing.
“Not to say,” added Grenfell, laughing, “that we run no great risk in being tired of him, since the mail leaves at ten, and he’ll scarcely remain after nine!”
“That is also something,” said Sir Within again.
“Here goes, then, for a note; or stay, I’ll just see if he be in the house. We shall say six o’clock dinner, and alone; these men abhor the idea of dressing, if they can help it.”