“I never heard of them in all my life. Who are they?” I inquired, interested.
“Friends of yours. They visit here often enough. You surely ought to know them. Lady Fraser is your wife’s dearest friend.”
“Fraser?” I said reflectively. “The only Fraser I know is a baker in Clare Market, who supplies my old servant, Mrs Parker, with bread.” Then, after a pause, I added, “And you say that these people are friends of mine? Have I many friends?”
“Lots. A rich man has always plenty of good-humoured acquaintances.”
“They like to come down here for a breath of country air, I suppose, eh?” I laughed.
“That’s about it,” he answered. “A good many of them are not very sincere in their friendship, I fear. The man who has money, lives well, keeps a good table, and has choice wines in his cellar need never be at a loss for genial companions.”
“You seem to be a bit of a philosopher, my friend.” I remarked.
He smiled knowingly.
“I haven’t acted as your secretary without learning a few of the crooked ways of the world.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Don’t I always act honestly, then?” This was something entirely new.