Lord Cheston offered his snuff-box to Mr Puckleton. “Attended a score of these affairs, haven’t you, Parvey?”
“Dear me, yes, my lord!” replied the surgeon, rubbing his hands together. “Why, I was present when young Mr Ffolliot was fatally wounded in Hyde Park. Ah, before your time, that would be, my lord. A sad business—nothing to be done. Dead on the instant. Dreadful.”
“Dead on the instant?” echoed Mr Puckleton, turning pale. “Oh, I trust nothing of that sort—really I wish I had not consented to act!”
The Captain gave a scornful snort and turned his shoulder, addressing Cheston. “Where’s Sir Roland, my lord?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s coming with Winwood,” replied Cheston, shaking some specks of snuff out of his lace ruffle. “Daresay they’ll drive straight to the ground. Thought Pom had best go and make sure Winwood don’t over-sleep. The very devil to wake up is Pel, you know.”
A faint, last hope flashed into Mr Drelincourt’s soul that perhaps Sir Roland would fail to bring his principal to the meeting place in time.
“Well,” said the Captain, glancing at his watch, “may as well go on to the ground, eh, gentlemen?”
The little procession started out once more, the Captain striding ahead with Lord Cheston, Mr Drelincourt following with his friend Puckleton and the doctor bringing up the rear.
Dr Parvey hummed a little tune to himself as he trod over the grass; Cheston and the Captain were talking casually of the improvements at Ranelagh. Mr Drelincourt cleared his throat once or twice and at last said: “If—if the fellow offers me an apology I think I should let it rest at that, d-don’t you, Francis?”
“Oh, yes, pray do!” agreed Mr Puckleton with a shudder. “I know I shall feel devilish queasy if there is much blood.”