"Good-by, London!" said Etta, sinking back upon the cushions with tears in her eyes.
But the far from docile old gentleman, who had been treated so unceremoniously, did not weep at all.
"She's going to Melbourne Hall," he kept repeating with a chuckle; "if the telegrams mean anything, they mean that."
By which it is clear that the old scoundrel had read Etta's messages which the ever-obliging porter carried to the telegraph office for her.
CHAPTER VIII
LADY EVELYN RETURNS
Mr. Griggs, the butler at Melbourne Hall, had just fallen asleep after a second glass of his master's unimpeachable port, when a footman knocked softly upon the door of his pantry and informed him that he was the proud owner of a telegram.
"For you, sir, and the boy's a-waitin' for a hanswer."
Mr. Griggs, who had been dreaming of a rich uncle in Australia, and of the fortune this worthy had bequeathed to him (by which he would set up a public-house in Moretown and acquire a masterly reputation), murmured softly, "No jugs in the private bar," and awoke immediately in that state of irritable stupor which even a moderate allowance (and Mr. Griggs' glasses were true bumpers) of ancient port may provoke.