His father once more looked up from his statistics, and without altering his tone replied,—
“Harkye, Tom. I have said my say. You know the position which I hold as the patron of religious and philanthropic societies. You are aware of the repute which I bear. With your proceedings, and those of your associates, rumour is busy. Such rumours reflect upon me. Common decency should suggest to you that I am the last person in the world to whom you should apply for fresh means wherewith to procure fresh indulgence.”
“Indeed, sir—”
“Enough, Tom. I am busy. Good-morning.”
It was useless to argue further. The Hon. Tom Foote, with downcast countenance, withdrew; reflected that he must once more have recourse to his friends, Shadrach, Mesech, and Abednego in Throgmorton Street; and inwardly apostrophised his stern parent as Old Father Adamant.
When Tom left the library Lord Lundy rang the bell. When the menial entered his lordship was still feeling in the left-hand pocket of his vest.
“Oh, James,” he said, “tell my man to look for the snuff-box I usually carry. Must have dropped it somewhere.”
James bowed and departed on his mission.
Meanwhile Tom, descending into Grosvenor Square, hailed a passing hansom; but when the driver pulled up by the kerb he was undecided in what direction to drive.
“Shall I go to the Raleigh and consult Bruiser, or shall I go direct to old Abednego, or shall I see Dot and explain matters?” This to himself. Then, suddenly making up his mind to see Dot, he gave his cabman an address in the vicinity of the Regent’s Park, and abandoned himself to his fate.