“Oh! I must ask the old fellow if he is accustomed to sitting next to his butcher on the Board of Public Kitchens! Who next, Gwen?”
“There is your pet aversion, Joe Watson, with solicitous inquiries.”
“Gwen, I misjudged the old draper. There is a deal of good behind his insular self-consciousness.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Little Montagu Vane came to ask how you were!”
“Beg pardon, Miss,” broke in the conscientious valet, “Mr Vane never came himself, he sent round a messenger boy.”
“Oh! how good, just like him,” said Lionel; “he is a dilettante even in sympathy, and prefers to get his information indirectly.”
“There are letters from Mrs Webster, from Mrs Archibald.”
“What can they want?” interrupted the patient. “These letters are of no earthly use; the first wants my subscription for some charity fraud, the second needs my name for some social parade. Throw them in the waste-paper basket.”
“Mrs Pottinger also sent her card,” went on Gwen, as she dropped the cards and letters one by one on the table.
“Excuse me, Miss,” again said Temple, “I forgot to say that Mrs Pottinger came to inquire everyday; and yesterday she left a small parcel which I put on the hall table.”