“I should certainly like to fix you, now that I am here,” answered Lionel.
“How would this day fortnight suit you?”
“No time could suit me better. And if Mr. Osmond will honour me by coming down to Park Newton at the same time, I need hardly say how pleased I shall be to see him there.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Osmond. “Glad to run down to your place, especially as St. George is going. Am thinking of buying a quiet little country roost myself. Town life is awfully wearing, you know.”
Kester laughed aloud. “Osmond would commit suicide before he had been in the country a month,” he said. “He is one of those unhappy mortals who cannot live away from bricks and mortar. The shady side of Pall Mall is dearer to him than all the county lanes and hayfields in the world.”
“You do me an injustice—really,” said Osmond. “Some of my tastes are quite idyllic. No one, for instance, could be fonder of clotted cream than I am. I never shoot, myself—haven’t muscle enough for it, you know—yet I have a weakness for grouse pie that almost verges on the sublime.”
“Or the ridiculous,” interposed Kester.
“By-the-by, I hope you are not without a billiard-table at your place,” said Osmond, with that affected little cough which was peculiar to him.
“We have a table on which you shall play all day long if you choose,” said Lionel.
“Then I’ll come. Country air and billiards charming combination! Yes, you may expect to see me at the same time that you see St George.”