“I will say this for Paul—he is well-informed as a rule.”
“Wait, Wally, until you are an Apostle.”
“Very well then, with the greatest possible reluctance I yield the point for the present. Verax shall wait until—Tell me, Agatha, what have you to say to me?”
The good, the noble—forgive our fervor, O ye Liberal organs of opinion, even if your bosoms be not thrilled by this whole-souled devotion to the public weal—the good and noble Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth flung the offending print upon Messrs. Maple’s expensive carpet in a sudden uncontrollable access of private pique.
“Agatha.” The accents of the great Proconsul were choked with emotion. “Tell me, Agatha, what you have to say to me?”
“Wally,” said the Suffolk Colthurst, “what I have to say to you is this.”
CHAPTER III
IS DOMESTIC IN THE MAIN, BUT WE HOPE
NOT UNWORTHY OF A GREAT CONSTITUTIONAL
STATESMAN
When you are up against a serious anticlimax it is a golden rule to begin a fresh chapter.
The Suffolk Colthurst paused, and sat with a further access of natural majesty upon a chair Louis Quinze, supplied, like the hearthrug, by Tottenham Court Road.
“Wally, Philip has declined to come to the Queen’s Hall this afternoon to hear Busoni.”