“Thought perhaps?”
Arminius Wingrove pondered more.
“Must go—poor old Polly. But be at the Carlton Monday at five.”
With suppressed, but deep and sincere, emotion the heir to the barony wrung the bejeweled hand of Arminius Wingrove. Never more would he pull his leg. Not a bad chap; harmless very.
“Have another sherry?”
Nary.
Exit Arminius Wingrove to dress to take old Polly to the Ritz Hotel. Let us hope his evenin’ will not be as dull as in his heart of hearts he fears it will be; and even if he is carried out a corpse at a quarter-past eleven from that palatial building which is not so far from Piccadilly, his dying thought must be that he perished in the performance of a kind, considerate, and gentlemanly action.
Not of course, my lords and gentlemen, that it was the first he had performed by many.
The plutocrat was dining, too. With whom? inquires Transatlantic Journalist. With his people, of course, in Grosvenor Square. Not at all romantic. Wasn’t it, though? Adela and her Pa were going, although Pa never went anywhere since the rheumatism.
Nobody else; just en famille. Something in the air? Does look rather like it, doesn’t it, Cousin? A little previous perhaps; and it doesn’t do to be too previous, even in modern journalism.