Oh, no; it was a shriek of the laughter with which his frame was convulsed, as he rolled from side to side, while Lord Barmouth stared from one to the other.
“Tom, my son—are you hurt?”
“Hurt!” shrieked Tom, in inarticulate tones. “Sold—sold—sold!”
“But what does it mean?” stammered Lord Barmouth.
“Mean!” shrieked Tom—“why, that that confounded old humbug Charley has stolen a march on us.—Charley, old fellow, God bless you—I never felt so happy in my life. Here, Maudey, give us a kiss.”
Before the young man had commenced hugging his sister, Charley Melton had moved to the door, closed and locked it against the inquiring looks of waiters, and taking Maude’s hand in his he then asked Lord Barmouth in a few manly words to forgive him and his wife their clandestine proceedings.
“Forgive you, Charley,” cried the viscount, “of course he will—won’t you, dad?”
“Well—well—yes, my boy, I think so,” said his lordship feebly, as he shook his new son-in-law’s hand. “I think I’m very glad, for I never liked that Sir Reginald.”
“Grantley, father—Grantley Wilters,” cried Tom.
“To be sure, my boy; yes, of course, Sir Grantley.”