“I’m glad to welcome you back, Oliver,” he said. “But I would have you to know that my name is Marmaduke.”
“Sooner be called Doggie myself, old chap,” said Oliver.
He stepped back, smiling at them all—a handsome devil-may-care fellow, tall, tough and supple, his hands in the pockets of a sun-stained double-breasted blue jacket.
“We’re indeed glad to see you, my dear boy,” said the Dean, recovering equanimity; “but what have you been doing all this time? And where on earth have you come from?”
“I’ve just come from the South Seas. Arrived in London last evening. This morning I thought I’d come and look you up.”
“But if you had let us know you were coming, we should have met you at the station with the car. Where’s your luggage?”
He jerked a hand. “In the road. My man’s sitting on it. Oh, don’t worry about him,” he cried airily to the protesting Dean. “He’s well trained. He’ll go on sitting on it all night.”
“You’ve brought a man—a valet?” asked Peggy.
“It seems so.”
“Then you must be getting on.”