CHAPTER XLI.—ON DRY CHAMPAGNE AND A CRISIS.
THE next morning Archie drove one of his many machines round to Harold’s rooms and broke in upon him before he had finished his breakfast.
“Hallo, my tarty chip,” cried Archie; “what’s the meaning of this?”
He threw on the table an envelope addressed to him in the handwriting of Mrs. Lampson.
“What’s the meaning of what?” said Harold. “Have you got beyond the restraint of Mr. Playdell alcoholically, that you ask me what’s the meaning of that envelope?”
“I mean what does the inside mean?” said Archie.
“I’m sure you know better than I do, if you’ve read what’s inside it.”
“Oh, you’re like one of the tarty chips in the courts that cross-examine other tarty chips until their faces are blue,” said Archie. “There’s no show for that sort of thing here. So just open the envelope and see what’s inside.”
“How can I do that and eat my kidneys?” said Harold. “I wish to heavens you wouldn’t come here bothering me when I’m trying to get through a tough kidney and a tougher leading article. What’s the matter with the letter, Archie, my lad?”
“It’s all right,” said Archie. “It’s an invite from your sister for a big shoot at Abbeylands. What does it mean—that’s what I’d like to know? Does it mean that decent people are going to make me the apple of their eye, after all?”