"A nice welcome you give me, Tom! 'Tell him to come again at a godly time—I'd not see him if 'twere my brother himself,' forsooth!"
Thomas hopped across the room and seized both Maurice's long, thin hands in his plump, chubby ones.
"My dear Maurry! My dear old fellow! I'd no notion 'twas you! My dolt of a lackey—but there! When did you arrive in England?"
"A week ago. I have been at the Pride."
"A week? What a plague d'ye mean by not coming to me till now, ye rogue?" As he spoke, Tom thrust Maurice into a chair, and himself sat down opposite him, beaming with pleasure.
Maurice leaned back, crossing his legs. A little smile flickered across his mouth, but his eyes were solemn as he answered.
"I had first to see my wife installed in her new home," he said.
For a moment Tom stared at him.
"Wife? Tare an' 'ouns, ye don't waste your time! Where and when did you marry the lady?"
"Three weeks ago, at Paris. Now I have come home to fulfil the last part of the Jettan adage."