“No, my lord, I s’pose not.”
“Good job too,” said Tom, shortly, and running upstairs he entered the drawing-room so suddenly that her ladyship, who was lying upon a sofa, being fanned by Tryphie, began to shriek.
“There, don’t make that row, mother,” said Tom, coarsely. “Hang it all, what a smell of lavender!”
“Is that you, Tom?” sobbed her ladyship, as Justine came in with a bottle of hot water to apply to her mistress’ feet.
“I suppose so, unless I was changed at my birth,” he said, laughing at Tryphie, and then giving his father a free-and-easy nod. “Spirits and water—internal and ex.”
“Oh, my boy, your wicked, wicked sister!” sobbed her ladyship.
“Serve you right,” said Tom.
“Such a wanton disgrace to her family.”
“Of course,” said Tom.
“I shall never get over it.”