"That's right," says his wife with hideous irony. "Put yer betters to rights, Schooly. Ugh, I wonder yer dare! An' wot do you know about it, you hugly worm?"
Stung to the quick by the painful accuracy of this appellative, her husband was understood to mutter that he had rather be an ill-favoured worm than an overdressed parrot with a swollen head.
Only waiting to throw a glass of water in his direction, the dream-child demanded my ruling in a voice shaking with indignation.
I immediately declared in favour of "gouge"—a decision for which Mr. Slumper, to whom victory is even more terrible than defeat, will thank me yet.
Of such is my life. Either Saturday or Sunday afternoon I go off duty. Then I dive into the country and visit my dog, who is well cared for. We spend a hilarious few hours, and Lancaster Gate is never mentioned. In the servants' hall, by the way, I am credited with a delicate wife—an impression which I have taken care not to correct, for where there are gathered together eight single ladies, les avantages de manage cannot be over-estimated.
And now I must take up the tea.
If ever you receive this letter, find time to reply. I know I have spoken ill of your hand-writing, but I take it all back.
Bien à toi, vieux sot,
ANTHONY LYVEDEN.
Anthony, then, was surveying himself, if you remember, in a long mirror. He had just taken up the tea. He was taking a second look at what he could see of his back, when the front-door bell rang. Even at this elevation there was no mistaking its deep peremptory note. Lyveden descended the stairs.
He opened the door faultlessly to find himself face to face with a man who had been his first servant when his battery had been in France.