Sir Roland drew nearer to Horatia. “Deeply regret!” he whispered hoarsely. “Poor Pel not quite himself.”
“For m-mercy’s sake, do hurry!” replied Horatia crossly.
By this time they had reached Grosvenor Square, and it had begun to rain again. The Viscount said abruptly: “Did you say it was a fine night?”
“I may have,” said Sir Roland cautiously.
“Well, I think it’s raining,” announced the Viscount.
“It is raining, and my f-feathers will be ruined!” said Horatia. “Oh, now what is it, Pel?”
The Viscount had stopped. “Forgotten something,” he said. “Meant to go and see whether that fellow Lethbridge was dead.”
“P-Pel, it doesn’t matter, really it d-doesn’t!”
“Yes it does, I’ve got a bet on it,” replied the Viscount, and plunged off in the direction of Half-Moon Street.
Sir Roland shook his head. “He shouldn’t have gone off like that,” he said severely. “Lady on his arm—walks off, not a word of apology. Very cool, very cool indeed. Take my arm, ma’am!”