“It’s good,” said the Marquis positively, and poured out two more glasses. “You had it from my cellar.”
“Did I so? I’ll say this for you, Vidal, you’ve inherited your father’s palate. It’s the best thing I know of either of you.”
The Marquis bowed. “We thank you. What’s your serious warning?”
“I’m just about to tell you, aren’t I? Don’t keep breaking in, my boy; it’s a devilish bad habit.” He drained his glass, and set it down. “That’s cleared my head a trifle. It’s that yellow-headed chit, Dominic. Filly you had on your arm at Vauxhall Gardens t’other night. Can’t remember her name.”
“Well?” said his lordship.
Rupert reached out a long arm for the bottle. “Avon’s got wind of her.”
“Well?”
Rupert turned his head to look at him. “Don’t keep on saying ‘Well,’ burn you!” he said testily. “I’m telling you Avon’s heard things, and he ain’t pleased.”
“Do you expect me to break out in a sweat?” asked Vidal. “Of course my father knows. It’s a habit with him.”
“And a damned bad habit, too,” said Rupert feelingly. “You know your own business best, or, at any rate, you think you do, but if you take my advice, you’ll go easy with — what in hell’s the girl’s name?”