He spoke with a bit of a splutter, as though his words tumbled over each other, he was in such a hurry to get them out.
'Lord Reginald, this is your brother--the Marquis of Twickenham.'
I rather fancy Foster gave me the whole of my title because it was like a slap in the face to the young gentleman at the door. There was no love lost between the pair. My affectionate relative frowned till his eyebrows met at the top of his nose.
'Twickenham!'
I wasn't uneasy, and I wasn't flurried. Though this was an odd way of meeting--and greeting--one's brother. It was plain he'd rather I'd kept away. So I just turned in my chair, and I looked at him; this time up and down; and I did a drawl.
'This Reggie? 'Pon my word, how you have grown!'
He came forward to the table, leaning against it with both hands, and bending over it to stare.
'Are you--are you--Foster, are you sure this is my brother?'
'There is certainly no doubt this time, Lord Reginald.'
'But--but--what infernal trick has been played on us?'