He threw himself back in the chair as the butler handed the declined plate second-hand to the guest and then took another to Kenneth.
“’Taint bad when you’re hungry,” whispered the lad across the table.
Max glanced at his host with a shiver of dread, but The Mackhai was in the act of pouring himself out a glass of sherry, which he tossed off, and then in an abstracted way put on his glasses and began to read a letter.
“It’s all right. He didn’t hear,” whispered Kenneth, setting a good example, and finishing his soup before Max had half done, for there was a novelty in the dinner which kept taking his attention from his food.
“Sherry to Mr Blande,” said the host sharply; and the butler came back from the sideboard, where he was busy, giving Max an ill-used look, which said plainly,—
“Why can’t he help himself?”
Then aloud,—
“Sherry, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
The decanter stopper went back into the bottle with a loud click, the decanter was thumped down, and the butler walked back past Kenneth’s chair.