“Who the deuce can it be?”
“Dr Granton, sir,” said the groom, coming to the door.
“Oh! Where is he?”
“Study, sir.”
“Bring him in here.”
Sir Hilton looked quite transformed. There was a bright, alert look in his erstwhile dull eyes, and he seemed to pull himself together as he started actively from his chair, and made as if to hurry after his groom.
But he was too late, for the door reopened, and Mark showed in a handsome, dark, military-looking man of about five-and-thirty, who marched in, hunting-crop in hand, spurs jingling faintly at his heels, and dressed in faultless taste as a horseman.
“My dear old Jack!”
“Hilt, old boy!”
“This is a surprise. Here, Jane, another cover; the doctor will breakfast with me.”