"Indeed. I said that if Mr. Lite would consent to let 'the home' to you for the race week, I would persuade you to use your influence with Lady Sophia——"
"Mamma!"
"With regard to the—well, in fact, the buns. Did I go too far?"
"And what is poor mamma to do? I can't ask her to eat a bun, Mr. Rodney, I really can't do that."
Mr. Rodney's fiddle face reddened with horror at the idea.
"Pray, pray don't! Such a shocking notion would never have occurred to me. I trust that my natural delicacy could not go so far astray. No, I only pledged myself that you would persuade Lady Sophia to sign her name at the bottom of a word in praise—only a word—in praise of the buns. I have the form here with me."
Mr. Rodney took a silver case from his pocket, and extracted therefrom a sheet of note-paper.
"Mr. Lite drew this up under my supervision," he said. "It reads thus: 'I beg to say that I have every confidence in your buns. They look inviting on a counter, they should be nourishing, and they seem desirable in every respect. Your influence upon the digestions of our children is, I feel almost certain, such as will commend itself to all who have the desire ebullient within them to advance the cause of humanity.' Place for signature: 'Lady Sophia Tree.' I think Mr. Gladstone could scarcely improve upon that."
And Mr. Rodney again observed his boots.