“Hate him?” said her ladyship. “Why, you always made him your greatest friend.”
“What, old Wilters?” cried Tom.
“Stuff! This Melton,” retorted her ladyship.
“Bah!” exclaimed Tom. “I meant that thin weedy humbug, Wilters.”
“And I meant that wretched impostor, Melton,” cried her ladyship, angrily.
“Look here, mother,” cried Tom. “Charley Melton is my friend, and he is here at your invitation. Let me tell you this: if you insult him, if I don’t go bang out on the croquet lawn and kick Wilters. Damme, that I will.”
“He’s a brave dashing young fellow, my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself. “I wish I dared—”
“Barmouth,” moaned her ladyship, “help me to the house. My son, to whom I should look for support, turns upon his own mother. Alas, that I should live to see such a day!”
“Yes, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, in a troubled way, as he offered the lady his arm. “Tom, my boy, don’t speak so rudely to your mamma,” he continued, looking back, and they moved slowly towards the open drawing-room window.
As her ladyship left the garden, Joby came slowly up from under the laurels, and laid his head on Tom’s knee, for that gentleman had thrown himself on a garden seat.