Mr. Mamble grunted, regarding him with a fond but sceptical eye. “Ay, I daresay! Prate is prate, but it’s the duck lays the eggs,” he observed. “You be off, and make yourself tidy! You ought to know better than to come into his Grace’s room looking like a clodpole!”
“Oh, bother, he don’t give a fig for that!” said Tom cheerfully. “Oh, sir, shan’t I go to London with you, after all?”
“Yes, indeed you shall, if your Papa will let you,” the Duke said, smiling at him reassuringly. “Perhaps you might come to me after Christmas, and see the pantomime, and all the famous sights. I will invite two of my young cousins as well—only you must not lead them into mischief!”
“Oh, no.’” Tom said earnestly. “I promise faithfully I will not!” Another thought occurred to him; he said anxiously: “And shall I go shooting at your house here? You said I should!”
“Yes, certainly, unless your Papa wishes to take you home directly.”
Mr. Mamble, who was ecstatically rubbing his knees at the thought of his son’s approaching visit to a ducal mansion, said that he didn’t know but what he might not remain in Bath for a few days after all. The Duke mentally chid himself for the feeling of dismay which invaded his breast.
Mr. Mamble became more loquacious over dinner, and by far more natural. He even ventured to ask the Duke why he had elected to wander round the country under a false name.
“Because I was tired of being a Duke,” replied his host. “I wanted to see how it would be to be a nobody.”
Mr. Mamble laughed heartily at this, and said he warranted some people didn’t know when they were well off.
“Oh, Pa!” exclaimed Tom, looking up from his plate. “He isn’t! But I told, him you would pay him back for all the money he spent on me, and you will, won’t you?”