“Later, perhaps, sir, if I may.”
“Well-primed, eh? Think if you drink it, I shall—and damn the doctor!”
“No, I’ve not been primed. Am I to pour some for you, sir?”
“No. There’s some damned cordial or other: Winkfield will bring it, if I ring—or even if I don’t. Sit down! Now then, young man! We’ll have the gloves off, if you please! I was never one to stand on ceremony, and there’s too little time left—perhaps not even enough for what I must do. But, by God, I’ll make a push to see it out! What do they say of the Squire in the village? Queer as Dick’s hatband, eh?”
“They speak of you with affection, sir.”
“Don’t you bamboozle me! I know ’em! I’m baked, but not backed yet, and not queer in my attic, I assure you! Did you think I sent for you out of an idle curiosity? I didn’t.”
“I think you sent for me to see what kind of a man it might be who had fallen in love with your granddaughter,” said John.
“Here’s a high flight! In three days?” said Sir Peter, on a jeering note.
“No, in three seconds.”
“Do you fall out of love as easily as you fall into it?” demanded Sir Peter.