On the morning to which I have already alluded, Mr. Tiptop, cleaned, breakfasted, and considerably freshened up, having completely recovered the effects of his early gallop, seen everything set straight about the stable, and dispatched two of his master’s horses to Shearsby Inn, was vainly waiting for an audience at the Honourable’s bedroom door about ten A.M.
The valet, a staid elderly man, who, as Mr. Tiptop would have said, made a point of “standing in” with all the upper servants, treated the stud-groom with considerable deference. They had exhausted their usual topic of the weather, the probability of sport, and their master’s propensities for repose, and were now beguiling the time by listening at his chamber door alternately, till the welcome sound of much splashing and hard breathing announced that the Honourable had tumbled out of bed into his tub.
After awhile the valet gave a low tap at the door, accompanied by a cough.
“Who’s there?” said the inmate of the chamber, sedulously drying his elegant proportions before an enormous fire.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” answered the well-drilled servant. “Mr. Tiptop, sir, wishes to speak to you, sir.”
“Tell him to go to the devil,” rejoined the Honourable, struggling leisurely into a clean shirt.
There was no occasion for the polite valet to repeat this message, inasmuch as Mr. Tiptop was there to hear it for himself. The servants looked at each other, and laughed in their sleeve.
Presently, the valet, who knew to a second how long each stage of the toilet ought to last, knocked again.
“What is it?” murmured the Honourable very indistinctly, for the sufficient reason that he was sedulously brushing his teeth.
“Mr. Tiptop, sir, wishes to know if he can see you before you go down to breakfast.”