“Brought back—home,” said Sir Felix, feebly.
“I’m heartily glad of it—I am, indeed,” said Trevor, earnestly. “Frank, old fellow, that will be an excuse for a call; and we can patch up the encounter. We were both horribly hot.”
“Fever heat?” said Pratt.
“Yes, and I daresay the old fellow’s as sorry now as I am. I’ll—Well, Lloyd,” he continued, as the butler came in, looking rather alarmed, and rubbing his hands softly, “where are the cigars?”
“Mustn’t smoke!” said Vanleigh, in a whisper to Sir Felix, but heard by Pratt.
“If you please, sir, Mrs Lloyd thought you would like a fire in the smoking-room, sir, and I’ve taken the cigars in there.”
“Bring—”
Trevor caught Pratt’s eye, and he checked himself.
“Lloyd,” he said, very quietly. “I don’t think you understand me yet. Go and fetch those cigar boxes.”
The butler directed a pitiful, appealing look at the speaker, and then went out, leaving Trevor tapping the mahogany table excitedly, till Pratt tried to throw himself into the breach, with a remark about Sir Hampton; but no one answered, for Trevor was hard at work keeping down his annoyance, Vanleigh was picking his white teeth with a gold point, and Sir Felix was intent upon the tints in the glass he held up before his eye.