The Duke groaned. “No, no, I cannot! He will keep me kicking my heels for an hour or more! Why could he not carry his troubles to my uncle? Tell him to go to the devil!” He perceived that Francis was about to carry out this command, and added hastily: “No, do not! Tell him that I am very much occupied, and cannot see him until noon, or perhaps even later!”
Francis bowed, and withdrew. Nettlebed said severely: “You shouldn’t have sent him off, your Grace. A very good man is Mr. Moffat, and one as has your interests at heart.”
“Well, I have more important business to attend to,” replied the Duke impenitently.
But he was once more doomed to disappointment. When, after being misdirected twice, he reached Little End, which was a small but respectable house beyond Priston, and was admitted to the presence of its master, he was dismayed to find himself confronting a gentleman greatly stricken in years. A stammering enquiry elicited the information that Mr. Rudgeley was a bachelor, and had no young relatives corresponding even remotely with Belinda’s description of her swain. There was nothing to he done but to extricate himself as gracefully as he could from a situation that had become unexpectedly awkward. Mr. Rudgeley seemed inclined to take his visit in bad part, and the Duke, sinking back in his chaise again, was obliged to wipe a heated brow. He drove back to Bath in a mood of considerable despondency, which was not alleviated by the news that his bailiff was patiently awaiting his pleasure.
“Oh, damn the fellow! I don’t want to sec him!” he said pettishly.
Nettlebed was shocked. “Is that what your Grace wants me to tell him?” he asked, taking his hat and Benjamin from the Duke.
“No, I suppose not,” sighed the Duke. “Is he in the parlour? I’ll go to him. Tell them to send up some wine, and biscuits, will you?”
He was looking rather cross when he entered the parlour but when his bailiff—yet another of those who had known him in his infancy—rose to meet him with a smile of simple affection, he was ashamed of his ill-humour, and shook hands with Moffat, saying: “Well, and how do you do, Moffat? I am sorry to have kept you waiting this age. Sit down, and tell me how you have been going on! And Mrs. Moffat? It is a long time since I saw you last!”
This friendly greeting naturally led to all manner of questions, and reminiscences which stretched back over an alarming number of years. Not until the bailiff had drunk his wine did the Duke feel it to be possible to lead him tactfully to a discussion of the business which had brought him to the Christopher. Moffat apologized for troubling his Grace, explaining that he had not been up to the house since the previous morning, and so had not known of Lord Lionel’s arrival there. “Not but what,” he said, confidentially, “I was wishful to see your Grace in person. It won’t be so very long now before your Grace will be of full age. And right glad everyone will be! Not meaning anything disrespectful to his lordship!” he added hastily. “I’m sure no one could be held in greater esteem! But to see your Grace properly in the saddle, as one might say, is what we are all looking forward to. There will be some changes I dare swear, your Grace—if I may say so—not being set in the old ways, like his lordship and Mr. Scriven, So I made so bold as to bring a few paper I would like fine to have your Grace look over before they go to Mr. Scriven,”
“Do you expect me to override my uncle, Moffat?” asked the Duke, smiling, and drawing up his chair to the table. “I am not in the saddle until the spring, you know! What is it? Roofs again?”