Maude turned from crimson to white, and Joby crept slowly under the couch, resenting an offer made by the butler to drive him out by such a display of white teeth that the pompous domestic said to himself that the dog might stay as long as he liked, for it wasn’t his place to interfere.
Sir Grantley’s costume was faultless, for he was a fortune to his tradespeople—the tightest of coats and gloves, the shiniest of boots, and the choicest of “button-holes,” displayed in a tiny glass of water pinned in the fold of his coat, as he came in, hat and cane in one hand, and a little toy terrier in the other—one of those unpleasantly diminutive creatures whose legs seem as if they are not safe, and whose foreheads and eyes indicate water on the brain.
“Ah, Lady Maude. Delighted to find you alone,” said the baronet, advancing and extinguishing the dog with his hat, so as to leave his tightly-gloved hand free to salute the lady.
“I am not alone,” said Maude quietly, and she pointed to his lordship’s chair.
“No: to be sure. Asleep! Well, I really thought you were alone, don’t you know.”
“Papa often comes and sits with me now,” said Maude, quietly.
“Very charming of him, very,” said Sir Grantley. “Quite well?”
“Except a headache,” said Maude.
“Sorry—very,” said the baronet, hunting for his glass, which was now hanging between his shoulders. “Bad things headaches, very. Should go for a walk.”
“I preferred staying at home this afternoon,” said Maude.