"How do you do, Sedley? Very glad to see you, Tom—very glad indeed, sir. You'll come to-morrow and dine; you must, indeed—and next day. You know our Welsh mutton—you do—you know it well; it's better here than in any other place in the world—in the whole world, sir—the Hazelden mutton, and, egad, you'll come here—you shall, sir—and dine here with us to-morrow; mind, you shall."
The Admiral wore a fez, from beneath which his gray hair bushed out rather wildly, and he was smoking through an enormous pipe as Tom Sedley entered his study, accompanied by the ladies.
"He says he's to go away to-morrow," said Miss Charity, with an upbraiding look at Sedley.
"Pooh—nonsense—not he—not you, Tom—not a bit, sir. We won't let you. Girls, we won't allow him to go. Eh?—No—no—you dine here to-morrow, and next day."
"You're very kind, sir; but I promised, if I am still in Cardyllian to-morrow, to run over to Ware, and dine with Verney."
"What Verney?"
"Cleve Verney."
"D—— him."
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Miss Charity, grimly.
"Boh!—I hate him—I hate all the Verneys," bawled old Vane Etherage, as if hating were a duty and a generosity.