“Yes, the ruse, one that your foggy head, ros-bif Anglais could never devise, but which I, Hector of the sunny France, threw off at once. Oorai, as we say in thees deesmal country. Vive l’amour. One—two—three days; when will he come? Any veek, and then—vive l’amour.”
Chapter Thirteen.
Sir Grantley is Agitated.
Lady Barmouth was in great trouble, and resembled more strongly than ever the heaving billows. She had been so agitated several times lately that she had found it necessary to take medicinally red lavender drops, or else eau de Cologne, the latter by preference for its fragrance.
She was terribly troubled, for matters had not gone so satisfactorily as she could wish. There had been a death in Sir Grantley Wilters’ family, and that gentleman had been unwell too, thanks to a fresh medicine man he had tried.
“And really,” said her ladyship, “that ungrateful child Maude does not show the slightest sympathy.”
“Fool if she did,” said Tom, who was in the drawing-room. “What’s that fellow Bellman been here for again?”
“To see Tryphie, of course,” said her ladyship.