“Here, shall I finish for you?” cried Tom. “Went to Barker’s, and had a chop for lunch, read the papers till dinnertime—a wicked wretch, on a Sunday too; then dined—soup, fish, cutlet, cut, off the joint, pint o’ claret, and on a Sunday. Is that right, my hawk-eyed detective?”
“No, my lord. Hem!”
“Will you be silent, Lord Diphoos?” cried her ladyship.
“That is the whole of the fourt entry, my lady.”
“And cheap at the money, whatever it is,” cried Tom. “I say,” he added, scornfully, “do you know where I was on Sunday, you sir?”
“Beg pardon, my lord,” said Mr Hurkle, undulating. “You are not on my list, and I have no client making inquiries about you.”
“That’s a blessing,” said Tom, “for them and for you.”
“Pray go on, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship. “Lord Diphoos, I must beg that you do not interrupt.”
To address her son as “Lord Diphoos” was in her ladyship’s estimation crushing, but Tom did not seem crushed.
“‘Monday, sixteenth Hem!’” said Mr Hurkle. “‘Saw Mr Melton come out, followed by large-headed bull-dog, short tail, closely-cut ears, one white leg, and—’”