"What you b'in after, old chap?" said an occupant of an armchair, laying down the "Illustrated London News," in which he had been reading the pros and cons of beard and moustachios as against clean shaving. He felt his own chin doubtfully as he looked at Marmaduke's upper lip; but then he, of course, was a soldier.
"Killin' somethin', I bet," yawned another. "What was it, Duke?"
"Not ladies, anyhow," put in a third. "Our Adonis is a regular misogynist; and yet, just look at his letters--faugh! they make the place smell like Truefitt's."
"Better than your fags, anyhow, Mac!" laughed Marmaduke, as he took the pile of notes and letters which the attendant had brought in on a salver. Then, as he threw himself into the most comfortable chair vacant, he held up half the bundle with a gay--"Anyone like them? They're all invitations, I expect, and I have to go back to-night!"
"And moneylenders, Muir! Don't forget Moses!" put in the man he had called Mac.
"Not so many of them either," retorted Marmaduke, "as you know Jack Jardine keeps us going. God bless him!" he added cheerfully.
"Here, hand us over a few, Major!" said a callow youth who lived to envy the more fashionable habitués.
"No go, Smithers!" remarked another youth less sallow; "even Nathan couldn't make you up to his form."
But Marmaduke, after a hasty glance at the superscriptions, had dexterously flung a dozen or so of letters into the applicant's tall hat, which was obstructing the way between his chair and the next. One smaller than the rest which Marmaduke had overlooked flew over it and lay on the carpet. It was directed in an uneducated hand.
"Hullo, pretty milliner, eh, Duke?" said Mac, taking it up and opening it. "No, no, fair play, you gave it----"