“You’d better be off at once, then, Reynolds. I shall accept Mr. Marx’s offer.”
He was evidently uneasy and made one more effort.
“I think Mr. Ravenor would prefer your returning with me, sir,” he said.
Mr. Marx had been leaning back in his chair, sipping his coffee somewhat absently, and to all appearance altogether indifferent as to which way I should decide. He looked up now, however, and addressed Reynolds for the first time.
“How the deuce do you know anything about what your master would prefer?” he said coolly.
Reynolds made no answer, but looked appealingly at me. I chose not to see him.
“I should imagine,” Mr. Marx continued, leaning back in his chair again and deliberately stirring his coffee, “that if Mr. Ravenor has any choice about the matter at all, which seems to me very unlikely, he would prefer Mr. Morton’s riding home in safety with a dry skin. Listen!”
We did so, and at that moment a fierce gust of wind drove a very deluge of rain against the shaking window-panes.
“That decides it!” I exclaimed. “I’ll accept your offer, Mr. Marx, if you don’t mind.”
“By far the more sensible thing to do,” he remarked carelessly. “Have a glass of wine, Reynolds, before you start. You’ve a wet drive before you.”