‘Show him in,’ said Arthur with alacrity, glad of anything which might be likely to divert the tedious ennui which oppressed him.
As the young architect, who it is well known is one of my brother’s numerous toadies, appeared at the door, he rose and, offering him his hand, said with that winning air of condescension which has gained for him the hearts of the rising geniuses in Verdopolis:
‘Well, Edwin, how are you this suicidal day?’
‘Quite well, my lord, I thank you. I trust I find your lordship the same?’
As they seated themselves on a sofa the marquis replied:
‘I cannot say that I am very brisk this afternoon, I have a slight headache…’
A brief silence followed of which Arthur seemed impatient, and he broke it by saying:
‘Now tell me, Edwin, what was your motive for coming to see me this dull day. I’m mistaken if you had not some particular reason.’
‘Why, my lord,’ replied the architect, blushing and looking down with an embarrassed air, ‘I can’t deny that I have.’
‘What is it, then?’ replied my brother eagerly. ‘Have you been striking out some plan for a new public building? If so, let me see it directly.’