“It—it—it was Charley Melton’s dog,” said Lord Barmouth, and Maude’s face became crimson.
“Yes, and that’s the dayvle of it,” said Sir Grantley, angrily. “I don’t choose for that fler’s dog to come and take such a liberty. He was—er—hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship’s pocket, here, don’t you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief. Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do—damme!”
Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him. This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up.
Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come. So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.
“Really, Sir Grantley, it was very tiresome,” said her ladyship.
“He, he, he!” laughed his lordship, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and bending down in his chair to laugh with all the enjoyment of a schoolboy at Tom’s monkeyish trick.
“My dear!” exclaimed her ladyship.
“I—I—I was laughing at the con—con—confounded impudence of that dog,” said his lordship, mendaciously; and her ladyship mentally promised him one of her lectures.
“It was an accident that cannot possibly occur again,” continued her ladyship. “Maude, my darling, pray go and take off your things. Sir Grantley, you will stay lunch?”
“Thanks, no,” said the baronet, changing his position, giving his hat a turn, and flourishing out the Bath bun, which fell upon the carpet before him.