"Oh, yes, sir! That will be all right. You'll be wanting d-d-dinner, I suppose, sir?"
A sad, prophetic smile flitted across Mr. Bascombe's face.
"I expect I shall," he said simply.
An interval of about seven minutes ensued between the landlord's departure and the clatter of the victoria as it drew up at the front door. That this time was not wholly wasted by Mr. Bascombe might have been gathered either from the reduced weight of the port bottle or the increased unsteadiness of his own gait as he crossed the hall. He managed to reach the vehicle without disaster, however, and climbing in smiled a dignified farewell at the landlord, who had come out to see him off.
The latter watched his guest drive away with a slightly puzzled expression.
"Blessed if I don't b-believe his Reverence had a d-drop too much," he muttered.
His Reverence certainly had. He lay back in the victoria as it rolled up the main street feeling immeasurably at peace with mankind. A gracious haze blurred the animated little groups of women that still clustered in front of the doorways and mellowed their excited chatter into a drowsy and not unpleasing murmur. Had the drive been a few hundred yards longer he would probably have arrived in a state of slumber, but the jerk of the carriage as it drew up in front of the Governor's gate just saved him from this social solecism. He blinked doubtfully for a moment, and then, recognizing his surroundings, clambered cautiously out.
"Am I to wait, sir?" inquired the driver.
The question seemed to afford Mr. Bascombe some amusement.
"Yes, you wait, old sport," he replied; "shan't be longer than I can help."