“Don’t I? You can come to the wedding, if you’ll promise not to look too woebegone.”
“I sha’n’t come. I shall send you an inexpensive present with black edges to it.”
“So long as it isn’t entrée dishes. We’ve tons of them already. I thought I’d mention it, because one knows how your tastes lie.”
The great man squeezed lemon on to the last of his oysters, and ate it with a satisfied nod of the head.
“Date fixed?” he asked. “If it is, break the sad news to me gently. Don’t be too cruel.”
“The date’s fixed within limits. We’ve bought a place to live in: and, if it’s ready, we shall be married the day I come of age.”
“Bought a place, have you? Come, this looks like business. Where is it? Got a good cook? Any shooting? Going to ask me down? Because, if you do, I’ll come and teach you how to make me comfortable.”
“Yes, I believe you could do that last. Those papers which don’t call you the Pope of Politics every morning, say you’re the most incapable man in Britain in most matters; but I never heard that the most vicious of them ever accused you of living in discomfort. You’ve a wonderful knack of looking after yourself.”
“Haven’t I? Don’t spoil your health with salted almonds; nibble one of these Riviera olives. Life is made for suiting your own tastes as much as possible, and, where practical, making your neighbors pay for them. Why isn’t Fairfax here to-night? Are we all too big for him?”