Mr. Comyn, who was talking earnestly to Mr. Hammond, turned at once, and bowed, “I shall be happy to do so, sir.”
Rupert called out: “Hey, where are you off to, Léonie? Tell me, do we spend the night in this place?”
“I don’t know,” Léonie answered. “I am going to make the acquaintance of this Mademoiselle Challoner.”
She went out, followed by Mr. Comyn, and his lordship shook his head gloomily. “It won’t do, Vidal. You can talk your mother over, but if you think your father will stand this you don’t know him. Lord, I wish I were well out of it!” He became aware of his nephew’s coatless and bootless state. “For God’s sake, boy, put your clothes on!” he begged.
Vidal laughed, and sat down to pull on his boots. His uncle observed them through his glass with considerable interest. “Did Haspener make those for you, Vidal?”
“Lord, no!” said the Marquis scornfully. “What, does he make yours still? These are a pair of Martin’s.”
“Martin, eh? I’ve a mind to let him make me a pair. I don’t like your coats, I don’t like your stock-buckle, your hats have too rakish a cock for a man of my years, your waistcoats are damned unimaginative, but one thing I’ll allow: your boots are the best made in the town, ay, and the highest polished. What does your fellow use on ’em? I’ve tried a blacking made with champagne, but it ain’t as good as you’d expect.”
Mr. Hammond broke in on this with unconcealed impatience. “Sir, is this a moment in which to discuss the rival merits of your bootmakers? Lord Vidal! Finding me adamant, Mr. Comyn has favoured me with an explanation of this extraordinary situation.”
“He has, has he?” said the Marquis, looking round for his coat.
“Devilish fluent, he was,” nodded Lord Rupert. “Y’know, Vidal, it’s a bad business, but you can’t marry the girl. There’s the name to be thought on, and what’s more, Justin.”