“Alphonse?” repeated Mr. Beaumaris, his finely chiselled brows lifting a little. “Oh, no! this is another. I don’t think I know his name. But I like his way with fish.”
Lord Fleetwood burst out laughing. “I expect if you discovered a cook with a way of serving game which you liked, you would send him off to that shooting-box of yours, and pay him a king’s ransom, only to kick his heels for three parts of the year!”
“I expect I should,” agreed Mr. Beaumaris imperturbably.
“ But,” said his lordship severely, “I am not to be put off with a cook! I came here in the expectation of finding fair Paphians, let me tell you, and all manner of shocking orgies—wine out of skulls, y’know, and—”
“The lamentable influence of Lord Byron upon society!” interpolated Mr. Beaumaris, with a faint, contemptuous smile.
“What? Oh, that poet-fellow that set up such a dust! Myself, I thought him devillish underbred, but of course it don’t do to say so. But that’s it! Where, Robert, are the fair Paphians?”
“If I had any Paphians in keeping here, you don’t imagine, do you, Charles, that I would run the risk of being cut-out by a man of your address?” retorted Mr. Beaumaris.
Lord Fleetwood grinned at him, but replied: “None of your gammon to me! It would take ten times my address to cut-out a—a—dash it, a Midas like you!”
“If my memory does not err, all that Midas touched turned to gold,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I think you mean Croesus.”
“No, I don’t! Never heard of the fellow!”