Nettlebed shook his head at him, but said: “Well, and I’ll be bound his lordship has told your Grace there isn’t a better agent than Mr. Scriven in the length and breadth of the land.”
“Oh, yes!” said the Duke. “Nothing could exceed his care for my interests.”
“Well, and what more could your Grace desire?”
“I think it would be very agreeable if he cared for my wishes.”
A slightly weary note in his master’s quiet voice made Nettlebed say with a roughness that imperfectly concealed his affection: “Now, your Grace, I see what it is! You have tired yourself out, carrying that heavy game-bag, and your gun, and you’re in a fit of the dismals! If Mr. Scriven don’t seem always to care for your wishes, it’s because your Grace is young yet, and don’t know the ways of tenants, nor what’s best for the estate.”
“Very true,” said the Duke, in a colourless voice.
Nettlebed helped him to put on his coat. “Your Grace’s honoured father had every confidence in Mr. Scriven, that I do know,” he said.
“Oh, yes!” said the Duke.
Feeling that his master was still unconvinced, Nettlebed began to recite the numerous virtues of the agent-in-chief, but after a few moments the Duke interrupted him, saying: “Well, never mind! Have we company to-night?”
“No, your Grace, you will be quite alone.”