“Heigh—ho—ha—hum!” yawned the baronet, placing his hands in his pockets and looking down in a dreamy way at the breakfast-table. Then he took out and opened his hunting watch, and closed it with a snap.
“E-lev-en o’clock,” he said. “Her ladyship send for you, Mark?”
“Yes, Sir Hilton. Brought round the pony-carriage.”
“Oh! Gone out?”
“Yes, Sir Hilton.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Morning’s paper, Sir Hilton,” said the man, obsequiously, as he drew a sporting-print from his pocket and held it out meaningly turned down at a particular spot.
“What’s that?” said the baronet, glancing at one line, and then, turning angrily, “Take it away!” he cried.
“Beg pardon, Sir Hilton. Tilborough first Summer Meeting.”
“Take it away!”