“It’s not the fault of the young Pells, I expect, then. That choice companion of yours, called Gusty, and the other one in scarlet.”
“Neither of them is here, Mr. Brandon. Gusty has gone to the Highlands for grouse-shooting; and Fabian sent word he couldn’t get leave to come down. I have not seen the eldest son yet, but I suppose he is somewhere about.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Brandon—and whenever he spoke of the Pells his voice was thinner than ever, and most decidedly took a mocking sound—“gone grouse-shooting, is Gusty! And the other can’t get leave. A lieutenant, is he not?”
“Yes, a lieutenant. His sister Constance has just told us she does not believe it is true that he could not get leave. She thinks he never asked for it, because he wanted to stay in London.”
“Ah. It’s fine to be the Pells, Johnny. One son off to shoot grouse; another living his fast London life; the rest holding grand doings down here that could hardly be matched by the first nobleman amongst us. Very fine. Wonder what they spend a year—taking it in the aggregate?”
“Have you been here long, sir?”
“Half-an-hour, or so—I’ve been looking about me, Johnny, and listening to the champagne corks popping off. Squire here?”
“No. He and Mrs. Todhetley did not come.”
“Sensible people. Where’s young Joe?”