“Where is he?” asked Westover, in anguish at being unable to refuse the appeal, but loathing the office put upon him.
“I'll show you, sor,” said the caterer's man, and he sprang up the stairs before Westover, with glad alacrity.
XXXIII.
In a little room at the side of that where the men's hats and coats were checked, Alan Lynde sat drooping forward in an arm-chair, with his head fallen on his breast. He roused himself at the flash of the burner which the man turned up. “What's all this?” he demanded, haughtily. “Where's the carriage? What's the matter?”
“Your carriage is waiting, Lynde,” said Westover. “I'll see you down to it,” and he murmured, hopelessly, to the caterer's man: “Is there any back way?”
“There's the wan we got um up by.”
“It will do,” said Westover, as simply.
But Lynde called out, defiantly: “Back way; I sha'n't go down back way. Inshult to guest. I wish—say—good-night to—Mrs. Enderby. Who you, anyway? Damn caterer's man?”
“I'm Westover, Lynde,” the painter began, but the young fellow broke in upon him, shaking his hand and then taking his arm.