“I shall remind you of that later,” Dominey observed. “I am told that the shooting is one of the only glories that has not passed away from Dominey.”
“I shall look forward to the reminder,” was the prompt response.
His uncle, who had been bending once more over the case of flies, turned abruptly around.
“Arthur,” he said, addressing his nephew, “you had better start on your round. I dare say Sir Everard would like to speak to me privately.”
“I wish to speak to you certainly,” Dominey admitted, “but only professionally. There is no necessity—”
“I am late already, if you will excuse me,” Doctor Stillwell interrupted. “I will be getting on. You must excuse my uncle, Sir Everard,” he added in a lower tone, drawing him a little towards the door, “if his manners are a little gruff. He is devoted to Lady Dominey, and I sometimes think that he broods over her case too much.”
Dominey nodded and turned back into the room to find the doctor, his hands in his old-fashioned breeches pockets, eyeing him steadfastly.
“I find it very hard to believe,” he said a little curtly, “that you are really Everard Dominey.”
“I am afraid you will have to accept me as a fact, nevertheless.”
“Your present appearance,” the old man continued, eyeing him appraisingly, “does not in any way bear out the description I had of you some years ago. I was told that you had become a broken-down drunkard.”