“You are fifty minutes late,” says Bertram, irritably.
“My dressing-gown and chocolate pot are dear to me.”
“You always turn night into day.”
“Night is day in London, as coal and electricity are its summer. Well, sha’n’t we take a hansom to Folliott’s?”
“Wait a moment, Fanshawe. Sit down here.”
Fanshawe complies reluctantly. “Why waste time? Let’s go and settle your inheritance.”
“Please go instead of me and say that I refuse. It is very simple.”
“It is simple indeed! So was the remark of ‘Tom’s a’ cold’; and just about as reasonable. My dear Bertram! La nuit porte conseil, and yet you still wish to refuse?”
“Yes, I refuse; and——”
He pauses, then swallows the fish bone desperately.