“See here,” laughed Joey; “you come as the Duke of Warrington, and bring Tommy with you, and I’ll write your City article.”
“For how long?” snapped Peter. Incorruptible City editors are not easily picked up.
“Oh, well, for as long as you like.”
“On that understanding,” agreed Peter, “I’m willing to make a fool of myself in your company.”
“You’ll soon get used to it,” Joey told him; “eight o’clock, then, on Sunday; plain evening dress. If you like to wear a bit of red ribbon in your buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans’, in Covent Garden.”
“And Tommy is the Lady—”
“Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, then she needn’t wear gloves. I know she hates them.” Joey turned to go.
“Am I married?” asked Peter.
Joey paused. “I should avoid all reference to your matrimonial affairs if I were you,” was Joey’s advice. “You didn’t come out of that business too well.”
“Oh! as bad as that, was I? You don’t think Mrs. Loveredge will object to me?”