“He does, sir. Please to walk in.”
Guided by the girl, the cloaked personage threaded through the lilacs and laurestinas, stepped on to the little piazza, on which Mr McTavish had oft smoked his pipe; and was at length shown into the apartment where Swinton awaited him.
The latter was alone—his wife having retired by instructions.
On the entrance of his visitor, Mr Swinton started up from his seat, and advanced to receive him.
“My lord!” said he, shamming a profound surprise, “is it possible I am honoured by your presence?”
“No honour, sir; no honour whatever.”
“From what your lordship said, I was expecting you to send—”
“I have come instead, Mr Swinton. The instructions I have to give are upon a matter of some importance. I think it better you should have them direct from ‘myself.’ For this reason I present myself, as you see, in propria persona.”
“That’s a lie!” thought Swinton, in reference to the reason.
Of course he kept the thought to himself His reply was: