Mrs. Hammond’s first impression when she saw Sam for herself was that she had been abruptly confronted with something in between a cyclone and a large Newfoundland puppy dressed in bright tweeds. Sam’s mood of elation had grown steadily all the way down Fleet Street, and he burst into the presence of his future employer as if he had just been let off a chain.
“Well, how are you?” he cried, seizing Lord Tilbury’s hand in a grip that drew from him a sharp yelp of protest.
Then, perceiving for the first time the presence of a fair stranger, he moderated his exuberance somewhat and stared politely.
“My sister, Mrs. Hammond,” said Lord Tilbury, straightening his fingers.
Sam bowed. Mrs. Hammond bowed.
“Perhaps I had better leave you,” said Mrs. Hammond. “You will want to talk.”
“Oh, don’t go,” said Sam hospitably.
“I have business in Lombard Street,” said Mrs. Hammond, discouraging with a cold look what seemed to her, rightly or wrongly, a disposition on the part of this young man to do the honours and behave generally as if he were trying to suggest that Tilbury House was his personal property but that any relative of Lord Tilbury was welcome there. “I have to visit my bank.”
“I shall have to visit mine pretty soon,” said Sam, “or the wolf will be scratching at the door.”
“If you are short of funds——” began Lord Tilbury.