“Am I, gov’nor? Then you tell Tryphie so, and back me up, for I mean, as the old song says, ‘to marry she.’”
“Do you, my boy?”
“Yes, gov’nor. Do you consent?”
“Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. When is it to be?”
“Barmouth,” said her ladyship in her deep contralto, “would you be kind enough to ring for Justine?”
Chapter Thirty One.
Tom picks a Bone.
“Stop a moment,” said Tom, who had slipped out and intercepted the French maid in the corridor. “Here, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”