"All right. All right. Then go 'round to the back where you belong."
George reached out, caught the other's shoulder, and shoved him to one side. While the servant gave a little cry and struggled to regain his balance, George walked in. A figure emerged painfully from an easy chair in the shadows by the fireplace.
"What's all this, Simpson?"
The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment, probably a swollen lip.
"It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go to the back door where he belongs."
"What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton, what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excuse my appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter this afternoon."
George grinned.
"Must be some horse."
None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroy Lambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressive hall.
"Your father sent for me."