Doing his best even in this dangerous anticlimax, S. of P. retrieved the Leading Morning Journal from the carpet, straightened out its crumpled folds with patient humility, laid it on the table, sat down in his own chair—Tottenham Court Road of the best period—put up his eyeglass—by Cary of Pall Mall, maker to the Admiralty—and, in the voice of one pronouncing a benediction, said, “Well, Agatha?”
“Actually declined. Tells me he’s engaged to a pantomime at Drury Lane.”
“Matter of taste, I suppose.”
“Taste, Wally! Dear Adela is coming, and I have taken such trouble to arrange this.”
The Proconsul showed a little perturbation.
“No accounting for taste, I presume. Why a man of his age, rising twenty-eight, should prefer—”
“Wally, it is very wrong, and you must speak to him. It is not kind to dear Adela. Please ring the bell.”
The Proconsul rang the bell, and a young and very good-looking footman attended the summons.
“Joseph,” said his mistress, “if Mr. Philip has not gone yet, tell him, please, that his father would like to see him.”
After a lapse of about five minutes, a young man sauntered into the library. He was a somewhat somber-looking young man in a chocolate-colored suiting.