“Old game,” said Tom gruffly—“to look after us.”
“I—I—I should be sorry to speak disrespectfully of her ladyship,” said Lord Barmouth, now under the influence of his third glass of wine, “but—but I’m afraid there’ll be no more peace now, Tom, my boy.”
At that moment a waiter entered.
“Visitors for milor,” he said.
“Here they are, governor. Now comes the tug of war.”
For at that moment her ladyship entered and tottered to a seat, wiping her brow, and making signs to Tryphie, who half supported her, for her salts. That young lady had to turn to Justine, who was supposed to be carrying the bag, but who in turn had to take it from Robbins, who looked as if he had been in a bath, and had dressed himself without a prior reference to a towel. For his fat face was covered with drops and runlets, and his grey hair hung wetly upon his brow. The smelling-bottle was, however, found, and her ladyship took a long inhalation, and said, “Hah!”