Mr Drelincourt put down his hat and his cane, and drew out a chair from the table. “Not breakfast, no!” he said a little peevishly.
The Earl surveyed him patiently. “Well, what is it now, Crosby?” he inquired.
“I came to,” said Mr Drelincourt, “I came to speak to you about this—this betrothal.”
“There’s nothing private about that,” observed Rule, addressing himself to the cold roast beef.
“No, indeed!” said Crosby, with a hint of indignation in his voice. “I suppose it is true?”
“Oh, quite true,” said his lordship. “You may safely felicitate me, my dear Crosby.”
“As to that—why, certainly! Certainly, I wish you very happy,” said Crosby, put out. “But you never spoke a word of it to me. It takes me quite by surprise. I must think it extremely odd, cousin, considering the singular nature of our relationship.”
“The—?” My lord seemed puzzled.
“Come, Rule, come! As your heir I might be supposed to have some claim to be apprised of your intentions.”
“Accept my apologies,” said his lordship. “Are you sure you won’t have some breakfast, Crosby? You do not look at all the thing, my dear fellow. In fact, I should almost feel inclined to recommend another hair powder than this blue you affect. A charming tint, Crosby: you must not think I don’t admire it, but its reflected pallor upon your countenance—”