Tom was about to make some angry reply, when Maude came in with Lord Barmouth leaning upon her arm, fresh from a walk, and Sir Grantley Wilters, most carefully got up in deep mourning, following behind with Tryphie.
“Now I appeal to your ladyship,” said Sir Grantley, as soon as the door was closed.
“There, there, there,” said Lord Barmouth, “let me tell it to her ladyship. It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and—and—and,” he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, “I won’t have my little girl here troubled about it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, behave like a gentleman if you can,” whispered her ladyship.
“Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will,” said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door.
“No, ’pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude,” said Sir Grantley. “It concerns you so much, don’t you know. Fact is, Lady Barmouth,” he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them—“fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude’s handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped.”
“Well, suppose a dog did,” said Tom coming to his sister’s rescue; “I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose.”
“He, he, he!” chuckled his lordship; “that’s not bad, Tom;” while her ladyship looked daggers.
“Doosed good—very doosed good,” said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom. “If it had been another dog, it wouldn’t have mattered, but it was—er—er—er—a very particular dog.”
“Just as I said—over his nose,” said Tom.