Sir Archibald looked at Mr. Courtney.
“We’ve come the wrong day,” he said, “or the wrong hour, or something.”
“It is Tuesday,” said Mr. Courtney, “and he certainly said 7.30.”
“It’s infernally awkward,” said Sir Archibald, glancing at his clothes.
Sir Timothy crossed the lawn, swinging his tennis racket and smiling.
“Delighted to see you,” he said. “I’d have asked you to come up for a game of tennis if I’d thought you’d have cared for it. Had an idea you’d be busy all day, and would rather dress at your own place. Hullo, you are dressed! A bit early, isn’t it? But I’m delighted to see you.”
Sir Archibald stepped slowly from the car. Men who undertake the task of governing Ireland must expect to find themselves looking like fools occasionally. But it is doubtful whether any turn of the political or administrative machine can make a man look as foolish as he feels when, elaborately dressed in evening clothes, he is suddenly set down on a sunny lawn in the middle of a group of people suitably attired for tennis. Sir Archibald, puzzled and annoyed, turned to Mr. Courtney with a frown.
“He said half-past seven,” said Mr. Courtney.
“I’m delighted to see you now or at any time, but, as a matter of fact, it’s only half-past five,” said Sir Timothy.
Sir Archibald looked at his watch.