“Let me tell you—” he began, but he was stopped by Airey.
“No, I decline to let you tell me anything,” said he. “You accused me just now of being so foolish as to listen to your confidences. I, perhaps, deserved the reproach. But I should be a fool if I were to give you another chance of levelling the same accusation against me. You will have to force your confidences on someone else in future, unless such as concern your liver. You confided in me that your liver wasn’t quite the thing. How is it to-day?”
“I understand your tactics,” said Lord Fotheringay, with a snap. “And I’ll take good care to make others acquainted with them also,” he added. “Oh, no, Mr. Airey; I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“To that fact every Peerage in the kingdom bears testimony,” said Mr. Airey.
Lord Fotheringay had neglected his cigar. It had gone out. He now took three or four violent puffs at it; he snapped it from between his teeth, looked at the end, and then dropped it on the ground and stamped on it.
“It was your own fault,” said Airey. “Try one of mine, and don’t bother yourself with other matters.”
“I’ll bother myself with what I please,” said Lord Fotheringay with a snarl.
But he took Mr. Airey’s cigar, and smoked it to the end. He knew that Mr. Airey smoked Carolinas.
This little scene took place outside the Castle before lunch on the second day after the departure of Mr. Avon and his daughter; and, after lunch, Lord Fotheringay put on a yachting jacket and cap, and announced his intention of having a stroll along the cliffs. His doctor had long ago assured him, he said, that he did not take sufficient exercise nor did he breathe enough fresh air. He meant in future to put himself on a strict regimen in this respect, and would begin at once.
He was allowed to carry out his intention alone—indeed he did not hint that his medical adviser had suggested company as essential to the success of any scheme of open air exercise.