I remained silent.
“Perhaps he is off to London, though?”
I pretended to be busy with my coffee.
“Best pheasant shoot in the county, and a close borough under the old régime; hope he will be more neighbourly—er—suppose he must shoot ’em before December?”
I buttered my toast.
Then the “Bur-r-r-rs” began!! I wonder he does not have a noise that ends with d—n simply, it would save him time!
“Couldn’t help seeing your letter was from Branches. Hope Carruthers gives you some news?”
As he addressed me deliberately I was obliged to answer:
“I have no information. It is only a business letter,” and I ate toast again.
He “bur-r-r-r-d” more than ever, and opened some of his own correspondence.