"What a very remarkable-looking man," Mrs. Verulam remarked to Mr. Rodney, as she removed her dust-wrap and walked towards the purple drawing-room. "He seems anxious. Is he ill?"
"Oh no; I think not. I fancy he superintends the servants," said Mr. Rodney.
"Or us," said Chloe, flicking the dust off her patent-leather boots in a way that was hardly Englishmanly. "He appears to me like a detective who hasn't mastered the first principle of his profession."
"And may I ask what this is?" blandly enquired Mr. Rodney.
"Certainly, old chap—not to look like one. See?"
Mr. Rodney did see, and secretly writhed. When he was called "old chap" he felt much as the maiden lady did when Mr. Pickwick appeared from the four-post bed, and recently Huskinson's familiarities had tried him deeply.
"What a very purple room!" said Mrs. Verulam, glancing round. "What is that thing over there—not a sideboard, nor a bureau, nor a writing-table?"
"That, madam," bayed a sudden voice, "is the instrument. Mr. and Mrs. Lite are very partial to it, but do not allow it to be employed during their absence."
Mr. Harrison was the speaker. Mr. Rodney was outraged by his intrusion into the conversation.