“Yes, damnably,” said Sir Charles in a loud tone. “It’s hurting just under both ears, just where Sambo gave ... ah! that’s better ... (a gasp) ... gave the Tomtit that nasty one in the big fight I went to see last week—the night I telephoned home to say that I was kept at the House,” he added by way of explanation.
The servants stood around like posts, and Lady Repton endured her agony.
“I think what I should have enjoyed most,” mused Sir Charles after this revelation, “would have been to run across old Prout just as I came out of that Club. Not that he knows anything about such things, but still, it was a pretty lousy place. Besides which, the people I was with! It would have been fun to see old Prout sit up. Shouldn’t wonder if he’d refused to let me speak at the Parson’s Show after that; and in that case,” ended Sir Charles significantly tapping his trousers pocket, “there’d be an end to the wherewith!” He nodded genially to his wife. “There’d be a drying up of the needful! Wouldn’t there, William?” he suddenly demanded of the gorgeous domestic, who was at that moment pouring him out some wine.
“Yes, Sir Charles,” said the hireling in a tone of the deepest respect.
“That’s what keeps ’em going, my dear,” he said, “and here’s to you,” he added, lifting his glass. “Are you put out about something?” he said, with real kindness in his voice.
“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” said that really Christian woman, nearly bursting into tears.
“I’m really very sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings in any way, my dear,” said Charles Repton.
No symptom of his malady was more distressing than this unmanly softness, it was so utterly different from his daily habit.
“I’d never dream of wounding her ladyship intentionally; would I, William?” he asked again.
“No, Sir Charles,” said William.