“Why, Mr. Stranleigh, I’m awfully much obliged, and I may tell you at once I am not going to refuse. A man doesn’t get a present like that every year of his life, worse luck.”
“Then to make up the average, Mr. Frowning-shield, you must let me add a few cases of our champagne.”
“Really, you are most kind. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t attempt it, I beg of you.”
A steward approached and presented Stranleigh with a sealed envelope, which, begging the pardon of his guest, he tore open, saying:
“I give all my orders in writing, so that there can be no mistake, and I rarely receive verbal reports from any one.”
“A good idea,” said Frowningshield.
“Yes, it prevents disputes afterwards.”
He read to himself the penciled words of the telegrapher who had transcribed a wireless message from the hilltop.
“The Rajah is turning round, and is evidently about to depart.”