“You got that, Hotham, and I must say you deserved it too,” said the younger in a low tone, which my quick hearing, however, caught.
“Will you have some breakfast with us?” said the elder, with a faint laugh, as though he enjoyed the encounter.
“No, I thank you, sir,” said I, stiffly, and passed on into the house.
“Master Digby,” said a smart little man in black, who for a moment or two puzzled me whether he was a guest or a servant, “may I show you to your room, sir? Sir Roger is not up; he seldom rings for his bath before one o'clock; but he said he would have it earlier to-day.”
“And what is your name, pray?”
“Nixon, sir. Mr. Nixon, Sir Roger is pleased to call me for distinction' sake; the lower servants require it.”
“Tell me then, Mr. Nixon, who are the two gentlemen I saw at breakfast outside?”
“The stoutish gentleman, sir, is Captain Hotham, of the Royal Navy; the other, with the Turkish pipe, is Mr. Cleremont, Secretary to the Legation here. Great friends of Sir Roger's, sir. Dine here three or four times a week, and have their rooms always kept for them.”
The appearance of my room, into which Nixon now ushered me, went far to restore me to a condition of satisfaction. It was the most perfect little bedroom it is possible to imagine, and Nixon never wearied in doing the honors of displaying it.
“Here's your library, sir. You've only to slide this mirror into the wall; and here are all your books. This press is your armory. Sir Roger gave the order himself for that breech-loader at Liège. This small closet has your bath,—always ready, as you see, sir,—hot and cold; and that knob yonder commands the shower-bath. It smells fresh of paint here just now, sir, for it was only finished on Saturday; and the men are coming to-day to fix a small iron staircase from your balcony down to the garden. Sir Roger said he was sure you would like it.”