‘You told me to hold my tongue, sir,’ said Desmond, falling back on Irish prevarication and broadening his brogue.
‘I shall have to take some order with you, sir,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Come to my study to-morrow after breakfast. It’s time you were doing something—time you began to think of—of your future. There, there,’ he continued, patting Desmond’s shoulder, ‘I’m not angry with you, my boy. I’ve been upset, and in my state of health the least thing excites me—ask Peebles.’
‘Ay,’ said the Scot, ‘that’s true—you’ve a troublesome temper.’
‘Never mind,’ said Dulcie; ‘we’ll coddle you up and comfort you. I’ll play a game of backgammon with you, and if that doesn’t cure you, I’ll send over to Galway for mamma.’
‘For your mother!’ cried Kilpatrick. ‘My sister Matilda!’
‘She’s a capital nurse,’ said Dulcie. ‘She’ll set you right in a jiffy—as Desmond would say.’ The bit of slang passed unnoticed by his lordship in his terror at the suggestion it conveyed.
‘Good heavens, child! Matilda will be praying over me day and night. I’m not quite so bad as that—I won’t be prayed over; but for this little cardiac weakness, I’m in excellent condition. Ask Peebles. There, there, go and get your dinner, and take Desmond with you.’
‘I shall come back afterwards,’ said Dulcie.
‘Yes, yes!’ said her uncle. ‘Come back by-and-by and give me my game of backgammon.’
‘I met Mr. Blake on the road, sir,’ said Desmond. ‘He asked me to deliver a message to your lordship.’