Wilkinson had his share of the dry ffoulis wit.
“Milord receives,” said Hekla, the Icelandic valet. He showed Gaveston into a room decorated exclusively with signed photographs of the various royalties whom Sir Wilkinson had been able to serve in those directions for which he had an all but unique talent, and which formed a very frequent subject for his reflection and reminiscence.
“Glad you’ve come, m’ boy,” he said heartily. “I think you’ll be comfortable here while your mother’s away, and, gad! you’ll brighten up the old place for me. I feel so diablement disoccupato, y’ know,” he went on meditatively, “but I’ll enjoy helpin’ you to find your feet in town. Don’t suppose you’ve seen much of the green-rooms yet, eh?”
Gaveston made a deprecating gesture.
“But look here: there’s a little Spanish gal singin’ at the Col. just now … remember once the King of the Belgians, the old ’un … the Ludwigstrasse tried to get hold of her then … ended as a Principessa … but old Leopold sent me that photograph all the same.” And the old fellow chuckled.
Gaveston knew all his uncle’s stories, and only listened at intervals: they were more interesting like that.
“Thanks immensely, Uncle Wilkie,” he replied. “Awfully thoughtful of you. But I want to think things over first.”
“Young devil…! Want to drive your own wagon, eh?”
“Shan’t hitch it to a Star, though,” flashed Gaveston.