“I might,” agreed Sherry. “No saying what I may not do — except one thing! Make yourself easy: I don’t mean to make love to the Incomparable!”
And with this, he strode on down Piccadilly, leaving George in a good deal of consternation.
George drove slowly on, turned down into St James’s Street, and had almost reached Ryder Street, where he lodged, when he bethought himself of Mr Ringwood. After all, it was Gil who had taken Kitten down to Bath, and it must be for Gil to decide what was now to be done. He turned his sulky and drove back in the direction of Stratton Street. Sherry had rounded the corner of Half Moon Street by this time, and was out of sight. George drove up to Mr Ringwood’s lodging called a loafer to hold his horse, and sprang down from the sulky.
The door of Mr Ringwood’s lodging was opened to him by the retired gentleman’s gentleman who owned the house, who conveyed to him the intelligence that Mr Ringwood was out of town.
“Out of town!” exclaimed George indignantly. “What the devil ails him to be out of town, I should like to know?”
The owner of the house, being accustomed to the vagaries of the Quality, and knowing this particular member of the Quality of old, showed no surprise at this unreasonable explosion, but said civilly that Mr Ringwood had gone into Leicestershire for a day’s hunting, and was not expected to return until the morrow.
“Confound him!” muttered George. “Taken his man with him, I suppose?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“He would!” said George savagely. “Now what am I to do?”
Mr Ford, not deeming that any answer was expected of him, discreetly held his peace. George stood glowering for a few minutes, and then said, with all the air of a man who has taken a momentous decision: “I’ll leave a note for him!”