“No, uncle, of course not. But I do, darling,” whispered the boy, nudging his wife.
“Quite right, my boy. So now, Mr Simpkins, I thank you once more. Will you have the goodness to take your daughter and go?”
“No, Sir Hilton, with all due respect to you,” said the trainer, drawing himself up; “seeing how things has happened, and what it all means to me and mine now, I say as you ain’t fit to be left. Is he, my dear?”
“No, dad. I think he looks very ill.”
“That’s right, my dear,” whispered the trainer. “Here you are, and here you’re going to stop.”
Sir Hilton had turned angrily away at the trainer’s reply, and went out into the hall, followed by Syd.
“What impudence! Not ill a bit now, only a little thick in the head. Hang him! Let him stop, Syd; but what about that girl? I don’t know what your aunt will say.”
“No, uncle; no more do I.”
Sir Hilton pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “Here, confound it! My watch has stopped. What time—”
Before he could finish his question the clock began to answer by chiming twice.