Her ladyship put up her eye-glass and stared at the bun; Sir Grantley gave his an extra twist and also stared at the bun, poking at it with his stick; and Maude and Tryphie escaped from the room.
“Didn’t know you were so fond of buns, Wilters,” said Tom. “You should have them put in a paper bag. They make your hat lining sticky.”
“That’s doosed funny, Diphoos,” said Sir Grantley. “Very fond of a joke. By the way, the amateurs are going to get up a pantomime next season. Won’t you join them? I’ll put in a word for you. Make a doosed good clown, don’t you know.—I think I had him there,” said the baronet to himself.
“I will, if you’ll play pantaloon,” said Tom sharply. “You’d look the part to perfection.”
“Yas, doosed good,” said Sir Grantley. “Day, Lady Barmouth; must go. Day, Lord Barmouth;” and with a short nod at Tom, he left the house.
“Tom,” exclaimed her ladyship, “if you insult Sir Grantley any more like that you shall suffer for it. If you behave like that, you will be the means of breaking off a most brilliant match.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, quietly, as her ladyship was sailing out of the room. “You can’t make things worse for me.”
“Tom, my boy,” said his lordship, “you are—are—are—a regular lion, that you are. I don’t know what I should do without you.”
“Fight for yourself, father, I hope,” said the viscount, smiling, “I’m afraid I do more harm than good.”
Meanwhile, Sir Grantley Wilters, who had not the slightest thought of breaking off the match, let Diphoos behave as he would, went to keep a particular engagement that he had with Monsieur Hector Launay, who was singing away to himself about “La—Fran-ce—et—la—guer-re,” and standing before a glass with a pair of scissors cutting his black hair close to his skull.