“Oh, no!” said the youth. “I cannot. I—I must change my dress.”
“Pooh, sir! I shall send to the tavern for your kit. Come to my study. You are pale. We’ll have a little something hot. Aha! Something hot!”
“But I think——” Geoffrey began.
“Tush!” said the Baron. “You shall help me with the wedding invitations.”
“Sir!” said Geoffrey haughtily, “I know nothing of writing and such low habits.”
“Why no more do I, of course,” replied Sir Godfrey; “nor would I suspect you or any good gentleman of the practice, though I have made my mark upon an indenture in the presence of witnesses.”
“A man may do that with propriety,” assented the youth. “But I cannot come with you now, sir. ’Tis not possible.”
“But I say that you shall!” cried the Baron in high good-humour. “I can mull Malvoisie famously, and will presently do so for you. ’Tis to help me seal the invitations that I want you. My Chaplain shall write them. Come.”
He locked Geoffrey’s arm in his own, and strode quickly forward. Feeling himself dragged away, Geoffrey turned his head despairingly back towards the pit.
“Oh, he’s safe enough in there,” said Sir Godfrey. “No need to watch him.”