For nearly a quarter of an hour of rapid travelling he spoke no word. Saltash was humming to himself an old tune with a waltz refrain which seemed to give him considerable pleasure.
They were drawing near the outskirts of Burchester Park when abruptly he broke off, and spoke. "I want you to come up to lunch on Sunday, you and Maud and the boy."
He spoke jerkily, almost curtly. Jake turned his head.
"Have you put the proposition before--my wife?" he asked.
"Oh, I asked her to come of course," said Saltash carelessly. "I didn't mention any particular day. Why? Have you any reason to suppose she would refuse?"
He laughed as he said it, but there was a challenging note in his laugh.
Jake passed the question by. "It is real kind of your lordship to think of it," he said. "I can't--of course--answer for my wife or the lad; but I shall be very pleased to come."
Saltash made a curious sound half of ridicule, half of exasperation. "If she doesn't come, I shall know whose doing it is," he said, with a touch of malice.
Jake was silent.
Impatiently Saltash turned towards him. "Look here, Bolton," he said aggressively; "it's no manner of use your raising any objection to the intimacy between us. It began long before you came on the scene, and it's going to continue. Understand?"