Mr Tarleton said, with a quiver of amusement in his voice: “I fancy he means Nemesis.”
“That’s it!” Ferdy said, looking at him with respect. “Nemesis! You know him too?”
“Well, it’s more than I do!” declared Sherry. “What’s more, whoever he is, he had nothing to do with my coming to Bath!”
“Not, ‘he’,” murmured Mr Tarleton, who was beginning to feel his years. “Goddess of retribution. The daughter, according to Hesiod, of Night.”
“Was she, though?” said Ferdy. “Well, by Jove! Daughter of who?”
“Night,” repeated Mr Tarleton.
Ferdy looked a little dubious. “Seems a queer start, but I dare say you’re right. Come to think of it, devilish rum ’uns, all those old Greeks.”
His cousin regarded him with a surprise not wholly free from disapproval. “Well, I never knew you was bookish before, Ferdy!” he said.
“Learned it at Eton,” Ferdy said, with a deprecating cough. “Point is, thought the thing was after me. Turns out it was after Monty. Gave him that wisty castor, and set George on to his track. All the same, Sherry, not sure it is such a good thing, now I come to think of it. Don’t want George to be obliged to fly the country. Tell you what: let Monty go before George arrives! Pity, in some ways, but there it is!”
Sherry had raised his head, and was listening to an unmistakable sound. “Too late!” he said, with a little laugh. “Lay you any money this is George!”