“Oh, he said that, did he?”
“That is the gist of his remarks, sir.”
“Very good! Then give me my dressing-gown!”
Webster swathed his employer in the garment indicated, and returned to the kitchen, where he informed the cook that, in his opinion, the guv’nor was not a force, and that, if he were a betting man, he would put his money in the forthcoming struggle on Consul, the Almost-Human—by which affectionate nickname Mr. Mortimer senior was generally alluded to in the servants’ hall.
Mr. Bennett, meanwhile, had reached the drawing-room, and found his former friend lying at full length on a sofa, smoking a cigar, a full dozen feet away from the orchestrion, which continued to thunder out its dirge on the passing of Summer.
“Will you turn that infernal thing off!” said Mr. Bennett.
“No!” said Mr. Mortimer.
“Now, now, now!” said a voice.
Jane Hubbard was standing in the doorway with a look of calm reproof on her face.
“We can’t have this, you know!” said Jane Hubbard. “You’re disturbing my patient.”