“That,” he said, “is where you make error. Mine! Old boy gave them to me.”
“Gave them to you! Then why did you break open the drawer?”
“Old boy took them back again, when he found out about letter.”
“Then they don’t belong to you?”
“Yes. Error! They do. Moral right.”
Molly wrinkled her forehead in her agitation. Men of Lord Dreever’s type appeal to the motherly instinct of women. As a man his lordship was a negligible quantity—he did not count; but as a wilful child, to be kept out of trouble, he had a claim on Molly.
She spoke soothingly.
“But, Lord Dreever——” she began.
“Call me Spennie,” he urged. “We’re pals. You said so—on stairs. Everybody calls me Spennie, even Uncle Thomas. I’m going to pull his nose,” he broke off suddenly, as one recollecting a forgotten appointment.
“Spennie, then,” said Molly. “You mustn’t, Spennie. You mustn’t, really. You——”