"I won't have the yacht."
"Very well, my lord; then I won't countermand the carriage."
He turned to go.
"Jones!" I shrieked.
He looked back at me. His eyes, full of a trusting reverence, met mine. My resolution began oozing out at every pore.
"Is—is—are you going with the carriage?" I stammered, for want of something to say.
"No, my lord," he answered wistfully.
That settled it. I let him depart without another word.
It was certainly a pleasant drive through the delightful scenery of the Isle, and I determined, since I had to pay the piper, to enjoy the dance. The Infant and Towers were hilarious to the point of vulgarity: I let myself go at the will of Jones. When we got back, we realised with a start that it was half-past six. The dressing-gong was sounding. Jones met me in the passage.
"Dinner at seven, my lord, in your room."