“I wish you’d chuck that sort of thing,” said Demaine, angrily and with insufficient respect for a senior. “It isn’t London and I’m not out for jokes. I’m in trouble.”
“In trouble?” said William Bailey, asking the question sympathetically. “Oh don’t say that! Dirty, maybe, and very funnily dressed, but not, I hope, in trouble?”
“Damn it!” said the other, “what are you in this house?”
“What I am out of it,” said William Bailey cheerfully, “a harmless eccentric with a small property, several bees in my bonnet (the present one an anti-Semitic bee), and a great lover of my friends, Dimmy, especially men of my own blood. Now then, what do you want?”
“Do you own this house, or do you not?” demanded Dimmy.
“Why,” said William Bailey, “it is very good of you to ask. I am what the law calls a lessor or lessee, or perhaps I am a bailee of the house. The house itself belongs to Merry. You know Merry, the architect who builds his father’s houses?”
“The books have got ‘Armiger’ in them,” said Dimmy suspiciously.
“That’s a title,” replied William Bailey, “not an English title,” he continued hurriedly, “it was given him by the Pope.”
“Anyhow, you’re master here?” said Demaine anxiously.
“Oh yes,” said Bailey, “I’ve been master here since the end of the first week. At first there was some doubt whether it was Elise or the groom or Parrett, the housekeeper, who was master. But I won, Dimmy,” he said, rubbing his hands contentedly, “I brought down my servant Zachary and between us we won. They’re as tame as pheasants now.”