“No, indeed, Sir! I never saw a gentleman so easily pleased. You’re not like Mr. Grenfell, Sir, that has the bill of fare brought up every morning to his dressing-room; ay, and M. Honoré himself, too, summoned, just as if it was before a magistrate, to explain what’s the meaning of this, and why he doesn’t do the other.”
“Your master permits this?”
“He likes it, Sir; he laughs heartily at it.”
“And the ladies, do they like it?”
“Oh, Mr. Grenfell only comes over to Beau Park when the ladies is away, Sir, up in town, or at the sea-side.”
“He’s no favourite of theirs, then?”
“I don’t believe they ever saw him, Sir. At all events, he was never down with us when we were all at home.”
“I suspect I know why,” said M’Kinlay, knowingly.
“Yes, Sir,” replied Rickards, as knowingly, while he took up a jar of pickled onions from the sideboard, and held it ostentatiously forward.
“You’re right, Rickards, you’ve hit it correctly. One glass more of that admirable wine. What’s that great ringing at the gate? Is that your mistress?”