“My fault, sir?”
“Yes, I was driven to drink by trying to obey you, and being civil to Wilters. Hang him, he makes one a regular laughing-stock.”
“Explain yourself, sir.”
“Well, you gammoned me into going to Hurlingham with your pet poodle.”
“My pet poodle!” exclaimed her ladyship.
“Bah! yes, your pet baronet; but never any more. Hang him, he came there dressed up like a theatrical super, in grey velvet, and with a soft hat and a rosette. I felt so mad that I could have punched his head, for all the fellows there were sniggering. But you should have seen him shoot.”
“Sir Grantley told me that he was a very good shot,” said her ladyship.
“Oh, he did, did he?” roared Tom. “Bless his modesty. Well, I’m going to tell Maude that when she’s married she had better look out, and if ever she sees her lovely husband take up a gun she had better bolt—out of town—the seaside—or come home. She won’t be safe if she don’t.”
Lord Barmouth tittered at this, but his lady looked round at him so sharply, that he turned it off, and stared stolidly straight before him.
“It was a regular case of fireworks,” continued Tom. “His attitudes were grand, and he looked as if he were rehearsing something for a circus. You should have seen the fellows laugh.”