Clevedale himself came up. “Well, Barham, what’s this? You’re half an hour late, and here am I waiting on you.”
My lord flung up his hands. “The perruquier! I crave ten thousand pardons, my dear Thomas! But the exigencies of the perruquier! Had it been anything else in the world the claims of picquet had held me adamant. But adamant, my dear Thomas! My tailor, even, I would despatch to the devil. But a perruquier! You absolve me: you have to absolve me!”
Clevedale laughed. “Gad, what foppery! Oh, I hold you excused. God send I never see you bald. Come off to my table. I’ve held it in the teeth of Molyneux this half-hour.” He bore my lord off to a place near the window.
“I wonder, doesn’t he find that manner a thought fatiguing to maintain?” said Sir Anthony meditatively.
“Clevedale?” Prudence looked inquiringly.
“No, my innocent: the new Viscount.”
Mr Belfort came over to them. “Tony, here’s Devereux wants to play at lansquenet, and all the world’s bent on faro. Will you and Merriot join us? The devil’s in Devereux that naught else will do for him. But the poor fellow’s feeling plaguily low today: he’s had bad news, y’know.” Mr Belfort nodded profoundly. “One must try to cheer him, so I’m pledged to find a four for lansquenet. Always plays lansquenet when he’s in trouble, does Devereux.”
“Pray, what’s the nature of his trouble?” Prudence asked solicitously.
“Oh, cursed bad news, my boy! That old aunt of his from whom he has expectations has rallied, and they say she’ll last another ten years. Poor old Devereux, y’know! Must try and raise his spirits.”
So with this praiseworthy intention they went to play lansquenet with Mr Devereux.