The man bowed and moved to the door, in time to open it for Sir Humphrey, who stood beaming at his son, while her ladyship tore open the letter and read:
“Dear Mamma,—I cannot marry Lord Henry Moorpark. Good-bye.”
“That’s all!” cried her ladyship in a perfect wail. “What does it mean?”
“Looks suspicious,” said Dick. “Hullo!” he continued, as the servant reopened the door. “Can’t see visitors.”
“Mr Frank Morrison, sir,” said the man, who looked rather scared at seeing her ladyship sink upon a couch, where Sir Humphrey began to fan her.
“What the deuce does he want?” grumbled Dick. “Hullo, Frank! I was coming to see you about that row with our Renée. Gertrude wrote and told me.”
“My wife here?” said Morrison, who was a good deal excited by wine.
“What, Renée? No!”
“Damn!” cried the young husband, dropping upon a chair, and looking from one to the other.
“Something fresh, then?” cried Dick, growing excited. “Here, why the devil don’t you speak, man?”