“No,” he said, “these stupid people have got on my nerves. Besides, this city is not big enough to hold us both just now.”
“I intend to go to Paris and study for the opera.”
“No,” he said decisively. “This time next week I shall be on my way back to Vancouver, unless——”
“Unless——?”
“Unless Bridport House can be made to forget the Parish Pump in the meantime. And there’s hardly a chance of that.”
CHAPTER X
TIME’S REVENGE
I
His Grace had had such a very bad night that he was only just able to reach his morning-room by the discreet hour of eleven. He was so exceedingly irritable that even the presence of the Times on the little table at his elbow was almost too much for him. And barely had he settled himself in his chair and put on his spectacles when an acute annoyance with the nature of things was further increased by the ill-timed appearance of his private secretary, Mr. Gilbert Twalmley.
Mr. Twalmley so well understood the art of being agreeable, that, of itself, his appearance was seldom if ever unwelcome; had the fact been otherwise it is reasonably certain that long ago he would have had to seek some other sphere of usefulness. And even on this sinister morning Mr. Twalmley was not the head and front of his own offending; the germ of unpopularity was in the message that he bore.
“Sir Dugald Maclean has rung up, sir. He would like to know if you can see him on a matter of urgent importance.”