“You, George? Is it possible!” exclaimed Sir Horace; “what best of all lucky winds has driven you here? I'm not sure I wasn't dreaming of you this very moment. I know I have had a vision of angelic innocence and simplicity, which you must have had your part in; but do tell me when did you arrive, and whence—”
“Not till I have dined, by Jove! I have tasted nothing since daybreak, and then it was only a mere apology for a breakfast.”
“Franchetti, get something, will you?” said Upton, languidly,—“a cutlet, a fowl; anything that can be had at once.”
“Nothing of the kind, Signor Franchetti,” interposed Harcourt; “if I have a wolfs appetite, I have a man's patience. Let me have a real dinner,—soup, fish, an entrée,—two if you like,—roast beef; and I leave the wind-up to your own discretion, only premising that I like game, and have a weakness for woodcocks. By the way, does this climate suit Bordeaux, Upton?”
“They tell me so, and mine has a good reputation.”
“Then claret be it, and no other wine. Don't I make myself at home, old fellow, eh?” said he, clapping Upton on the shoulder. “Have I not taken his Majesty's Embassy by storm, eh?”
“We surrender at discretion, only too glad to receive our vanquisher. Well, and how do you find me looking? Be candid: how do I seem to your eyes?”
“Pretty much as I have seen you these last fifteen years,—not an hour older, at all events. That same delicacy of constitution is a confounded deal better than most men's strong health, for it never wears out; but I have always said it, Upton will see us all down!”
Sir Horace sighed, as though this were too pleasant to be true.
“Well,” said he, at last, “but you have not told me what good chance has brought you here. Is it the first post-station on the way to India?”