“You do not know!” said he, slowly, as he fixed his eyes on her.
“Take care, sir, take care; you never trod on more dangerous ground than when you forgot what was due to me, I told you I did not know; it was not necessary I should repeat it.”
“There was a time when you rebuked my bad breeding less painfully, Alice,” said he, in deep sorrow; “but these are days not to come back again. I do not know if it is not misery to remember them.”
“John Anthony Butler, Esq.,” cried a loud voice, and Skeffy sprang over a box-hedge almost as tall as himself, flourishing a great sealed packet in his band. “A despatch on Her Majesty's service just sent on here!” cried he; “and now remember, Tony, if it's Viceroy you're named, I insist on being Chief Sec.; if you go to India as Governor-General, I claim Bombay or Madras. What stuff is the fellow made of? Did you ever see such a stolid indifference? He doesn't want to know what the Fates have decreed him.”
“I don't care one farthing,” said Tony, doggedly.
“Here goes, then, to see,” cried Skeffy, tearing open the packet and reading: “'Downing Street, Friday, 5th.—Mr. Butler will report himself for service as F. O. Messenger on Tuesday morning, 9 th. By order of the Under-Secretary of State.'”
“There's a way to issue a service summons. It was Graves wrote that, I 'd swear. All he ought to have said was, 'Butler for service, F. O., to report immediately.'”
“I suppose the form is no great matter,” said Mrs. Trafford, whose eyes now turned with an anxious interest towards Tony.
“The form is everything, I assure you. The Chief Secretary is a regular Tartar about style. One of our fellows, who has an impediment in his speech, once wrote, 'I had had,' in a despatch, and my Lord noted it with, 'It is inexcusable that he should stutter in writing.'”
“I must be there on Wednesday, is it?” asked Tony.