“Why, sir, if I didn’t think it was one of them young dogs from down the harbour after the fruit. They’ve got a dinner party on, and I come out of the house and ketched sight of you. I beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t know you were asked.”
“Hush! Don’t talk so loud. No, I was not asked, Brime, but—that is—I thought I’d—I was looking at the drawing-room window.”
“I understand, sir. I see, sir; but how did you manage to get in?”
“Don’t—don’t ask me questions, man. I—there, for heaven’s sake, hold your tongue. Take this. Get yourself a glass.”
“Thankye, sir.”
“And don’t say you saw me here.”
“Oh, dear, no, sir; certainly not.”
“It was a bit of a freak, Brime,” continued Chris, feeling his cheeks burn, as he faltered and stumbled in his words, ready to bite out his own tongue at being compelled to lower himself like this to the man, as he was sure to go and chatter to the maids about how he had caught Mr Chris; and perhaps give Claude the credit of a clandestine meeting.
“Yes, sir; young gents will have their larks sometimes,” said the gardener drily, and mentally adding to himself, “Shabby beggar! Sixpence! Bound to say if it had been Mr Glider he’d ha’ made it half-a-crown.”
“I trust to your discretion, Brime. Can you let me out through the side gate?”