“Which?”
“Sir Brooke, for one. Pendleton has had a note from him in the morning post.”
“He’s not coming?”
“Well, what should you say? The note consisted of three words: ‘Wait for me.’ What should you say?”
“What does Pendleton say?”
Belvoir laughed. “Poor chap, he’s almost off his chump still, as you may guess. Governing a household threatened with theft and no one knows what else is out of his line. He’s in high dudgeon over it—wants to know how long he’s supposed to wait, why he should be expected to wait at all, and so forth. He, if you like, hasn’t forgotten last night.”
“What I can’t see is, why this gentleman’s absence should paralyze the proceedings.”
Belvoir winked. “We can’t have the Feast proper unless the bride’s health is drunk, and Sir Brooke is assigned to proposing the toast.”
A few seconds went by while I absorbed this statement. “No one else could propose it, of course?”
Belvoir grinned. “Well, opinions differ. Crofts says anybody can, but Cosgrove solemnly insists that no one else shall!”