“Yes, my leddy.”
“Where's Sir Andrew?”
“He's takin' a wee drap warm, my leddy, in the butler's room; he was ower wat in the 'dickey' behind.”
“It rained smartly, but I 'm sure the country wanted it,” dryly observed Lady Janet.—“Well, sir, you here again?” This sharp interrogatory was addressed to Mr. Phillis, who, after a vain search for her Ladyship over half the house, at length discovered her.
“You are not aware, my Lady,” said he, in a tone of obsequious deference, that nearly cost him an apoplexy, “that these rooms are reserved for my master.”
“Well, sir; and am I to understand that a guest's accommodation is a matter of less importance than a valet's caprice? for as Mr. Cashel never was here himself, and consequently never could have made a choice, I believe I am not wrong in the source of the selection.”
“It was Mr. Linton, my Lady, who made the arrangement.”
“And who is Mr. Linton, sir, who ventures to give orders here?—I ask you, who is Mr. Linton?” As there was something excessively puzzling to Mr. Phillis in this brief interrogatory, and as Lady Janet perceived as much, she repeated the phrase in a still louder and more authoritative tone, till, in the fulness of the accents, they fell upon the ears of him who, if not best able to give the answer, was, at least, most interested in its nature.
He started, and sat up; and although, from the position of his bed in a deep alcove he was himself screened from observation, the others were palpable enough to his eyes.
“Yes,” cried Lady Janet, for the third time, “I ask, who is Mr. Linton?”