“Well, Spennie, my boy,” said the knight. “Time to dress for dinner, I think. Eh? Eh?”
He was plainly in high good-humour. The thought of the distinguished company he was to entertain that night had changed him temporarily, as with some wave of a fairy wand, into a thing of joviality and benevolence. One could almost hear the milk of human kindness gurgling and splashing within him. The irony of Fate! To-night—such was his mood—a dutiful nephew could have come and felt his pockets and helped himself—if circumstances had been different. Oh, woman, woman, how you bar us from Paradise!
His lordship gurgled a wordless reply, thrusting the fateful letter hastily into his pocket. He would break the news anon—soon. Not yet—later on; in fact, anon.
“Up in your part, my boy?” continued Sir Thomas. “You mustn’t spoil the play by forgetting your lines. That wouldn’t do.”
His eye was caught by the envelope which Spennie had dropped. A momentary relapse from the jovial and benevolent was the result. His fussy little soul abhorred small untidinesses.
“Dear me,” he said, stooping, “I wish people would not drop paper about the house. I cannot endure a litter.”
He spoke as if somebody had been playing hare-and-hounds and scattering the scent on the stairs. This sort of thing sometimes made him regret the old days. In Blunt’s Stores Rule 67 imposed a fine of half a crown on employés convicted of paper-dropping.
“I——” began his lordship.
“Why”—Sir Thomas straightened himself—“it’s addressed to you!”
“I was just going to pick it up. It’s—er—there was a note in it.”