'Well, that beats everything!' exclaimed Jawleyford, burning with rage as he fastened the window again.
He stood for a few seconds transfixed to the spot, not knowing what on earth to do. At last resolution came to his aid, and, rushing upstairs to his dressing-room, he quickly divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and slipped on a dressing-gown and night-cap. He then stood, door in hand, listening for the arrival. He could just hear the gig grinding under the portico, and distinguish Jack's gruff voice saying to the servant from the top of the steps, 'We'll start directly after breakfast, mind.' A tremendous peal of the bell immediately followed, convulsing the whole house, for nobody had seen the vehicle approaching, and the establishment had fallen into the usual state of undress torpor that intervenes between calling hours and dinner-time.
The bell not being answered as quickly as Jack expected, he just opened the door himself; and when Spigot arrived, with such a force as he could raise at the moment, Jack was in the act of 'peeling' himself, as he called it.
'What time do we dine?' asked he, with the air of a man with the entrée.
'Seven o'clock, my lord—that's to say, sir—that's to say, my lord,' for Spigot really didn't know whether it was Jack or his master.
'Seven o'clock!' muttered Jack. 'What the deuce is the use of dinin' at such an hour as that in winter?'
Jack and my lord always dined as soon as they got home from hunting. Jack, having got himself out of his wraps, and run his bristles backwards with a pocket-comb, was ready for presentation.
'What name shall I enounce?' asked Mr. Spigot, fearful of committing himself before the ladies.
'Mister Spraggon, to be sure,' exclaimed Jack, thinking, because he knew who he was, that everybody else ought to know too.
Spigot then led the way to the music-room.