“No; it’s my business, sir. I’ll do it myself.”
“But you’ll forgive her, Tom?”
“Perhaps. Now leave me alone. Stop, where’s dieci otto?”
“Ask the waiter,” said Melton, coldly, and he left the room.
“He needn’t have turned rusty,” grumbled Tom, crossing to reach the bell: but at that moment her ladyship came in, hurriedly followed by Tryphie and Lord Barmouth.
“No, no, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, who seemed to have been strung up to resistance by some stirring news, and at a glance Tom saw that her ladyship knew as much as he.
“Silence, Barmouth. Tryphie, ring the bell. I suppose there are police of some kind in a benighted place like this. What number did he say, Tryphie, dieci otto?”
“Yes, aunt dear, eighteen,” said Tryphie, whose face was working and eyes twinkling in a peculiarly malicious manner.
“Eighteen! That will do,” cried Tom. “Here, governor, come with me.”
“Tom! stop! Barmouth, I forbid—”