Grantly shut the door, crossed to the fireplace and stood on the hearth-rug looking down at his father. "I've come to say, father, that I think we ought to ask Mr Gallup to dinner."
"You think we ought to . . ." the Squire paused in breathless astonishment.
"Yes, sir, I do. And I hope you'll think so too when you hear what
I've got to say."
"Go on," said Mr Ffolliot, laying down his book. "Go on."
It wasn't very easy. Grantly swallowed something in his throat, and began rather huskily: "You see, sir, we're under an obligation to Gallup. We are really."
"We are under an obligation. What on earth do you mean?"
"Well I am, father, anyway. You remember the night before the election——?"
"I don't," the Squire interrupted, "why in the world should I——?"
"Well, sir, it was like this . . . I went to dinner with young Rabbich at the Moonstone, and I got drunk——"
"You—got—drunk?" the pauses between each word were far more emphatic than the words themselves.