"Sweets to the sweet."—Hamlet.
"I am going to London in the morning. Can I do anything for anybody?" asks Sir Guy, at exactly twenty minutes past ten on Wednesday night. "Madre, what of you?"
"Nothing, dear, thank you," says the Madre, lazily enough, her eyes comfortably closed. "But to-morrow, my dear boy! why to-morrow? You know we expect Archibald."
"I shall be home long before he arrives, if I don't meet him and bring him with me."
"Some people make a point of being from home when their guests are expected," says Miss Lilian, pointedly, raising demure eyes to his.
"Some other people make a point of being ungenerous," retorts he. "Florence, can I bring you anything?"
"I want some wools matched: I cannot finish the parrot's tail in my crewel-work until I get them, and you will be some hours earlier than the post."
"What! you expect me to enter a fancy shop—is that what you call it?—and sort wools, while the young woman behind the counter makes love to me? I should die of shame."
"Nonsense! you need only hand in the envelope I will prepare for you, and wait until you receive an answer to it."
"Very good. I dare say I shall survive so much. And you, my ward? How can I serve you?"