My lord came to his rooms in Half Moon Street to find that a visitor awaited him. My lord’s valet took his hat and cane, and murmured the name of Markham. My lord listened with a head gently inclined in interest, and went into his dining-room, smoothing a wrinkle from a satin sleeve.
Mr Markham arose at his entry, and bowed slightly. My lord smiled with the utmost affability, and put up his quizzing-glass. “My friend of Munich days!” he said softly. “How I am honoured!” His eyes dwelt lovingly on Mr Markham; there was no reading in them the smallest hint of what thoughts were passing swiftly across that subtle mind. “But sit down, my dear Mr Markham! Pray sit down!”
Mr Markham obeyed this injunction, and was silent while the valet set wine and glasses on the table. My lord’s white hand hovered over the Burgundy decanter; my lord looked inquiring.
“I won’t drink, I thank you,” said Mr Markham.
“But positively I insist!” My lord was pained. “You will permit me to give you some claret.”
Mr Markham watched the valet go out of the room. “You must guess I’ve come upon business,” he said curtly.
“No; but no, my dear Markham. I thought you had come to recall old days,” said his lordship. “I never occupy myself with business. You cannot interest me in such a subject. Shall it be claret or Burgundy?”
“Oh, claret, then!” Mr Markham said impatiently.
“I am quite of your opinion,” nodded my lord. “Burgundy is the very King of Wines, but it was not meant to be taken in the morning.” He handed his guest a brimming glass, and poured another for himself. “To your very good health, my dear sir!”
Mr Markham made no answer to his toast. He drank some of the wine, and pushed the glass from him. “I venture to think, my Lord Barham, that the business I am come upon will interest you vastly,” he said.