“I don't belong to them,” he said, “you do. They won't resent your coming.”
Nor did they. They were sitting at tea, and welcomed me with a shout.
“Hello, old domine!” yelled Bruce, “where's your preacher friend?”
“Where you ought to be, if you could get there—at home,” I replied, nettled at his insolent tone.
“Strike one!” called out Hi, enthusiastically, not approving Bruce's attitude toward his friend, The Pilot.
“Don't be so acute,” said Bruce, after the laugh had passed, “but have a drink.”
He was flushed and very shaky and very noisy. The Duke, at the head of the table, looked a little harder than usual, but, though pale, was quite steady. The others were all more or less nerve-broken, and about the room were the signs of a wild night. A bench was upset, while broken bottles and crockery lay strewn about over a floor reeking with filth. The disgust on my face called forth an apology from the younger Hill, who was serving up ham and eggs as best he could to the men lounging about the table.
“It's my housemaid's afternoon out,” he explained gravely.
“Gone for a walk in the park,” added an other.
“Hope MISTER Connor will pardon the absence,” sneered Bruce, in his most offensive manner.