The colour of his skin resembled cedarwood save on the nose, where it resembled old oak. If ever a man was fit, that man was George Mulross, but if ever a man was changed, George Mulross was also that man.
“Sit down,” said the Prime Minister delightedly. “Oh my dear George, sit down!”
“I can’t,” said George, using that phrase perhaps for the twentieth time during the last forty-eight hours. “They’re ready-made,” he explained, blushing (as Homer beautifully puts it of Andromache) through his tan. “I didn’t sit down in the train and I didn’t sit down in the cab.”
“Where have you been, George?” asked the Prime Minister.
“I’ve had an adventure,” said George modestly.
“But hang it all, where have you been?”
“I’ve been to sea,” said George.
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h!” said the Prime Minister.
“Beastly luck, isn’t it?” said George simply.
“It’s worse than that,” said Edward grimly.