“I, sir, dine at eight.”
“Eight! Why, man, that’s the time the theatre begins. You’ll dine at seven.”
“You adopt a very peculiar tone, Mr Hammond, in endeavouring to dictate to me at what hour I take my meals. I entirely decline to contemplate the possibility of my dining at such an un-Christian hour as seven.”
“Good! then we’ll dine at seven, and you’ll dine afterwards. When we’ve dined we’ll go on together in a body to the theatre, and Miss Norah shall take it turn and turn about to sit with us. What do you say, gentlemen? Isn’t that a sporting proposition?”
“On condition that Miss Norah sits first of all with me, I, for one, am not indisposed, for the sake of peace, to waive some portion of my undoubted rights.”
This was Basil Carter. Mr Purchase came hard upon his heels.
“Now, Basil, you’ve taken the words out of my mouth. If Miss Norah sits first with me, Hammond, you may count me in.”
“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried Mr Rumford. “It appears to me that I have a voice in the matter; I claim the place of honour.”
Mr Hammond endeavoured to throw oil upon the waters.
“Softly! keep a tight hand upon the reins. Wait till the gate has gone, then we’ll all be off together. There need be no difficulty about a little thing like that. For my part, if the running’s fair, I’m willing that my stall shall be the last Miss Norah sits in; that’ll suit me all the way. But there are ways and means of settling that sort of thing pleasantly and quietly between ourselves. The main point is the principle—we’re to share and share alike. If that’s conceded, we’ll worry about the details afterwards. You understand, Miss Norah, that you’re to dine with us at seven. We’ll be here, the lot of us, to fetch you at a quarter to. For the sake of all the good horses that ever ran an honest race, be ready—don’t keep us waiting—we’ll be an anxious crowd. And, until then, Miss Norah, I’ll be wishing you good-bye.”