“I am extremely sorry,” said the Earl, shaking his head. “But I fear I must decline your—er—very flattering invitation. You see, I have promised to join a party at Vauxhall Gardens with my wife.”
“Feel sure her ladyship would excuse you—almost bound to rain—very dull evening!” said Sir Roland feverishly. “Apprehend it is Pel’s party—not your taste at all, sir. Very queer people, Pel’s friends. Wouldn’t like them, I assure you.”
The Earl’s lips twitched. “You quite decide me, my dear Pommeroy. If they are like that I think I would rather be at her ladyship’s side.”
“Oh, they are not!” said Sir Roland hastily. “Oh, dear me, no, nothing of that sort! Very respectable people, but dull, you know—a set of company you would not like. Much better play whisk at my house.”
“Do you really think so?” The Earl appeared to meditate. “I am of course, very fond of whisk.”
Sir Roland breathed a sigh of relief. “Knew I could count on you! Beg you will dine first—five o’clock.”
“Who are your other guests?” inquired his lordship.
“Well, to tell you the truth—not quite sure yet,” said Sir Roland confidentially. “Bound to find someone glad of a game. Have it all fixed by five o’clock.”
“You tempt me very much,” said the Earl. “And yet—no I fear I must not yield. Some other evening, perhaps. You’ll take a glass of madeira with me before you go?”
The crestfallen Sir Roland shook his head. “Thank you, no—must get back to—that is to say, must get to Boodle’s. Might find a fourth there, you understand. No chance of persuading your lordship?”