“Oh, come now, Merriot!” expostulated Jollyot jovially, “you must not deny me my revenge!”
“To be sure, I live in a most devilish outlandish spot,” said Mr Devereux mournfully. “But you may take a chair: you know you may take a chair. ’Pon rep, sir, I do positively believe an evening spent at home is vastly more fatiguing than a quiet card-party. ’Pon my honour, sir!”
There was nothing for it but to show polite acceptance.
Mr Devereux was wreathed in smiles. “To tell you the truth, sir, I’ve had a devilish ticklish task to find anyone free tonight,” he said naively. “Fanshawe’s engaged; so’s Barham. Molyneux goes out of town; Selwyn’s in bed with a trifling fever.”
Over against the wall Mr Markham stopped writing, and raised his head.
“I’m overwhelmed by the honour done me,” said Prudence ironically.
The irony went unperceived. “Not at all, my dear Merriot. Oh, not in the least! I shall see you then, at five? You can take a chair, you know, and be there in a trice.”
“As you say, sir. But I think I have not the pleasure of knowing your address.”
Mr Devereux simpered elegantly. “Oh, a devilish inconvenient hole, sir! I’ve apartments in Charing Cross.”
“Ah yes, I remember the street now,” Prudence said. “At five o’clock, sir.”