“Yes, Sir Hampton,” said Sanders, slowly and impressively, as if he were trying to fix the formula in his mind.
“I’ll see you in the morning about a new bed on the lawn, and—er-rum—don’t let this affair be talked about.”
“No, sir—Hampton,” said Sanders.
He went heavily down the new path, while his master stood apparently loading himself—that is to say, he thrust what seemed to be a white gun-wad into his mouth, before turning into the hall, and letting off a tremendous “Er-rum,” which echoed through the house. The wad, however, was only a digestive tablet, an antidote to the heartburn, from which Sir Hampton suffered; and he strode into the dining-room, where the family was already assembled for luncheon.
“Oh, dad—papa,” cried Fin, “such news for you.”
“Don’t worry your papa, my dear,” said Miss Matilda, smoothing her handkerchief, which, from being sat upon, resembled a cambric cake; “wait till he has had some refreshment. He is tired. Hampton, will you take a cutlet?”
“Don’t, pa. Have some chicken pie.”
“Shall I send you a poached egg, dear?” said Lady Rea, who was in difficulties with the mustard-pot, the protruding spoon of which had entangled itself with her open lace sleeve, and the yellow condiment was flowing over the table.
“No,” said Sir Hampton, gruffly.
“Tut, tut, tut,” said Lady Rea, making matters worse by trying to scrape up the mustard with a spoon.