"Ought never to have had it to prevent," said Mr. Pope. "Is your friend hurt?"
"A rib—and shock," said Trafford.
"Well—he deserves it," said Mr. Pope. "Rather than launch myself into the air in one of those infernal things, I'd be stood against a wall and shot."
"Tastes differ, of course," said Trafford, with unruffled urbanity.
"You'll have all this cleared away," said Mr. Pope.
"Mechanics—oh! a complete break-down party—are speeding to us in fast motors," said Trafford. "Thanks to the kindness of your domestic in taking a telegram for me."
"Hope they won't kill any one," said Mr. Pope, and just for a moment the conversation hung fire. "And your friend?" he asked.
"He goes in the next ten minutes—well, whenever the litter comes from the doctor's. Poor old Solomonson!"
"Solomonson?"
"Sir Rupert."