The clattering of boots on the stone stairs was followed by the rattling of the loose door knob and the splitting open of the door. Mr. Leyton shot into the room searching the party with a swift glance and taking his place in the circle in a state of headlong silent volubility. By the way he attacked his lunch it was clear he had a patient waiting or imminent. It occurred to Miriam to wonder why he did not always arrange his appointments round about lunch-time ... but any such manœuvre would be discovered and things would be worse than ever. Mr. Orly watched quietly while he refused Mrs. Orly’s offer to ring for soup, devouring bread and butter until she should have carved for him,—and then extended his invitation to his son.
“Oh, is this the annual?” asked Mr. Leyton gruffly. “What’s the show?”
“My dear will you be so good as to inform Mr. Leyton of——”
“Don’t be silly Ro” said Mrs. Orly trying to laugh “we’re going to Hamlet Ley.”
“We have the honour of begging Mr. Leyton’s company on the occasion of our visit, dinner included, to——”
“What’s the date?” rapped Mr. Leyton with his tumbler to his lips.
“The date, ascertained as suited to all present with the exception of your lordship—oh my God, Ley” sighed Mr. Orly hiding his face in his serviette, his huge shoulders shaking.
“What have I done now?” asked Mr. Leyton, gasping after his long drink.
“Don’t be so silly Ley. You haven’t answd fathez queshun.”
“How can I answer till I’m told the date?”