“Always,” he whispered back, “if they marry people chosen for them in place of those they love.”
“I must request, Barmouth, my dear, that you do not tell such stories as that. They are loathsome and repulsive. Lady Grace Moray comes of a very low type of family. Her grandfather married a butterman’s daughter, or something of that kind. They have no breeding.”
“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief in the drawing-room,” said his lordship, rising.
“Why not ring, my love?” said her ladyship.
“No, no, no, I would rather fetch it myself,” said his lordship, who left the room, went up two or three stairs, stopped, listened, and then toddled back to where, on a tray, the remains of a tongue stood in company with an empty vegetable dish or two.
There was a great piece, too, of the point quite six inches long lying detached, for the doctor’s arm was vigorous, and he had cut the tongue quite through. Such a chance was not offered every day, and it would not only make a couple or three pleasant snacks when his lordship was hungry, but it would keep.
He listened: all was still, and, cautiously advancing, he secured the piece of dry firm tongue. Then he started as if electrified. Robbins’ cough was heard on the stairs, and his lordship dabbed the delicacy away in the handiest place, and turned towards the door as the butler appeared in the hall.
“What game’s he up to now?” said Robbins to himself, as, with his memory reminding him of the trouble he had had to sponge and brush the tails of the old gentleman’s dress coats, which used to be found matted with gummy gravies and sauces, so that the pocket linings had had to be several times replaced, he opened the dining-room door.
“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief upstairs Robbins,” said his lordship humbly; and he toddled in again and retook his place.
The luncheon ended, the party rose and stood chatting about the room, while the doctor was in earnest conversation with Maude and her ladyship.