"Certainly—Sid—quite ready!"
"Oh! the ladies have a hundred topics to dwell upon over their coffee, Sidney," said his uncle; "we must have no rebellion this side of the house."
"I am going home, sir—you must excuse me—I cannot stay here any longer. Come, father!"
"Home!"
"I have business at home—I am pressed for time—I will not stay!" he almost shouted.
Sidney's father, in mild bewilderment, rose and tottered after him. This was an unpleasant wind-up to a social evening, and Sid's strange demeanour perplexed him. But the boy's will was law, and he succumbed to it; the boy always knew what was best—his son, Sid, was never at fault—never!
The guests were too amazed to comprehend the movement; some of them were inclined to consider it a joke of Sid's—an excuse to retreat to the drawing-room; the mystery was too much for their wine-benumbed faculties just then.
Sidney and his father were in the broad marble-paved hall; the footmen lingering about there noted their presence—one made a skip towards the drawing-room facing them.
"Stop!" said Sid. His memory was good, and his organ of locality better. He walked with a steady step towards a small room at the end of the hall—a withdrawing-room, where the hats and coats had been placed early in the evening. He returned in a few moments with his great-coat on, his father's coat across his arm, and two hats in his hands.
"Then—then we're really going, Sid?"