«Yes, my lord. Her Grace is lunching with Lady Swaffham.»
«Bunter, I can't. I can't, really. Say I'm in bed with whooping cough, and ask my mother to come round after lunch.»
«Very well, my lord. Mrs. Tommy Frayle will be at Lady Swaffham's, my lord, and Mr. Milligan — »
«Mr. Who?»
«Mr. John P. Milligan, my lord, and — »
«Good God, Bunter, why didn't you say so before? Have I time to get there before he does? All right. I'm off. With a taxi I can just — »
«Not in those trousers, my lord,» said Mr. Bunter, blocking the way to the door with deferential firmness.
«Oh, Bunter,» pleaded his lordship, «do let me — just this once. You don't know how important it is.»
«Not on any account, my lord. It would be as much as my place is worth.»
«The trousers are all right, Bunter.»