"Where's Viviette?" he asked eventually.
"Who?" growled Dick.
"Rot. What's the good of frills? Miss Hastings."
"Busy. She'll be busy all the morning."
"I rather wanted to see her."
"I don't think you will. You might ring at the front door and send in your card."
"I might," said Banstead, lighting a cigar. He had tried this method of seeing Viviette before, but without success. There was another pause. Dick snipped off an end of bast.
"You're up very early," said he.
"Went to bed so bally sober I couldn't sleep," replied the misguided youth. "Not a soul in the house, I give you my word. So bored last night I took a gun and tried to shoot cats. Shot a damn cock pheasant by mistake, and had to bury the thing in my own covers. If I'm left to myself to-night I'll get drunk and go out shooting tenants. Come over and dine."
"Can't," said Dick.