Some voices made themselves heard from outside. Sunderland and Colonel Boyce looked at each other, and my lord bit his fingers. The Colonel muttered something in Sunderland's ear.
Harry laughed. "Do you bite your thumb at me, my lord? No, sir, says he, but I bite my thumb. Odso, I bite my thumb."
"Be silent, sirrah," Sunderland cried.
The door opened. "Announce me," says a placid voice, and the secretary cried out in a hurry: "His Grace the Duke of Marlborough."
Harry went on laughing. The contrast of Marlborough's assured calm and the agitation of the others was too impressive. "Oh, three merry men, three merry men, three merry men are ye," he chanted. "No, damme, it's more Shakespeare. The three witches, egad. And I suppose Duncan is murdered in the next act. When shall you three meet again? In—"
"Oh, damn your tongue, Harry," his father exploded.
Marlborough was not disturbed. His eye had picked out Sunderland. "Is this the whole conspiracy, my lord?" said he.
"I beg your Grace's pardon," Sunderland started up. "You see, I am not private," and he called out: "Guard, guard."
"No," Marlborough said, and, as the soldiers came in, dismissed them with
"You are not needed."
Sunderland fell back in his chair. "Oh, if you please," he cried peevishly. "At your Grace's command."