Upon his arrival in Grosvenor Square Mr Drelincourt paid off the chairmen and tripped up the steps to the great door of Rule’s house. He was admitted by the porter, who looked as though he would have liked to have shut the door in the visitor’s painted face. Mr Drelincourt was no favourite with Rule’s household, but being in some sort a privileged person he came and went very much as he pleased. The porter told him that my lord was still at breakfast, but Mr Drelincourt waved this piece of information aside with an airy gesture of one lily-white hand. The porter handed him over to a footman, and reflected with satisfaction that that was a nose put well out of joint.
Mr Drelincourt rarely waited upon his cousin without letting his gaze rest appreciatively on the fine proportions of his rooms, and the elegance of their appointments. He had come to regard Rule’s possessions in some sort as his own, and he could never enter his house without thinking of the day when it would belong to him. Today, however, he was easily able to refrain from the indulgence of his dream, and he followed the footman to a small breakfast-room at the back of the house with nothing in his head but a sense of deep injury.
My lord, in a dressing-gown of brocaded silk, was seated at the table with a tankard and a sirloin before him. His secretary was also present, apparently attempting to cope with a number of invitations for his lordship, for as Mr Drelincourt strutted in he said despairingly: “But, sir, you must surely remember that you are promised to her Grace of Bedford tonight!”
“I wish,” said Rule plaintively, “that you would rid yourself of that notion, my dear Arnold. I cannot imagine where you had it. I never remember anything disagreeable. Good-morning, Crosby.” He put up his glass the better to observe the letters in Mr Gisborne’s hand. “The one on the pink paper, Arnold. I have a great predilection for the one writ on pink paper. What is it?”
“A card-party at Mrs Wallchester’s, sir,” said Mr Gisborne in a voice of disapproval.
“My instinct is never at fault,” said his lordship. “The pink one it shall be. Crosby, really there is no need for you to stand. Have you come to breakfast? Oh, don’t go, Arnold, don’t go.”
“If you please, Rule, I wish to be private with you,” said Mr Drelincourt, who had favoured the secretary with the smallest of bows.
“Don’t be shy, Crosby,” said his lordship kindly. “If it’s money Arnold is bound to know all about it.”
“It is not,” said Mr Drelincourt, much annoyed.
“Permit me, sir,” said Mr Gisborne, moving to the door.