“I don’t think so, sir,” said the old butler, austerely. “I am sure Master Dick requires something after his long walk.”
“Yes, yes—that he does,” said a rather shrill voice; and an active, grey-haired woman of about fifty came bustling out. She was very primly dressed in black silk, with white muslin kerchief, white holland apron, in whose pockets her hands rested; and her grey hair was carefully smoothed back beneath her plain white muslin cap.
“No, no; it’s only twelve o’clock, Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, good-humouredly. “I lunch at one.”
“You take my advice, Master Dick, and have it now,” said the butler.
“Yes, Lloyd, have it brought in, and ask Master Dick if he’ll have some of the old claret,” said the woman.
“My dear Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, smiling, “this is very kind of you—of you both—but I’m not ready for lunch yet. You can both go now. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”
He led the way into his handsomely furnished study, the beau ideal of a comfortable room for a man with a mingling of literary and sporting tastes.
“Here, let’s sit down and have a cigar,” he said, pushing a great leather-covered chair to his friend; “it will smooth us down after our encounter.”
“No; I’ll fill my pipe,” said Pratt, suiting the action to the word, and lighting up, to send big clouds of smoke through the large room.
“You mustn’t take any notice of the old butler and housekeeper, Frank,” said Trevor, after a pause.