“It—it is—Slotman, auntie,” Marjorie said.
“Don’t sniff, child. You’ve got a cold; go up to my room, and in the medical—”
“I haven’t a cold, auntie.”
“Don’t talk to me. Go and get a dose of ammoniated tincture of quinine. As for this Mr. Slotman—unpleasant name—what the dickens does he want of me?”
Marjorie did not answer.
Slotman was being shewn into the drawing-room a few moments later. He was wearing his best clothes and best manner. This Lady Linden was an aristocratic dame, and Mr. Slotman had come for the express purpose of making himself very agreeable.
“Oily-looking wretch!” her ladyship thought. “Well?” she asked aloud.
“I am grateful to your ladyship for permitting me to see you.”
“Well, you can see me if that’s all you have come for.”
“No!” he said. “If—if I—” He paused.