“All right,” cried Tom; “then let me speak in a downright manner, my dear mother. You can do just as you please, but I am now on the scent, which I shall keep to myself; and I tell you this, old lady, I will not have Maude—whatever her faults—ill-used.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Lord Barmouth; but then he had had four glasses of wine.
“Barmouth!”
“Yes—yes, my dear.”
“Oh, what language, and to a mother!”
“There, there, stop that,” cried Tom. “We are not at home, but at an hotel, and the people won’t understand tragic amateur acting.”
“Tryphie, my child,” cried her ladyship, after giving her son an annihilating look, “come with me to our own apartments. Lord Barmouth, summon the waiter, or no, come with me. Tryphie, you can ring and order déjeuner, I wish to speak to these people in the hotel. I think I can obtain some information here.”
Lord Barmouth cast a despairing look at his son, and followed her ladyship into the hall, while Tom had just seized the opportunity, and Tryphie at the same moment, to embrace her in spite of a certain amount of resistance, when there was a loud “Oh!” and he turned to find that Charley Melton had entered the room.
“You here, Charley! Why, my dear old chap!”
They shook hands warmly, Tryphie following suit, and the pretty little face flushed with pleasure and confusion.