“Mr. Manners waits on you, sir, in the drawing-room,” said the footman. “Your honour is here sooner than he looked for,” he added gratuitously.
“Sooner than he looked for?”
“Yes, sir. James is gone to you but quarter of an hour since with a message, sir.”
I was puzzled.
“And Miss Manners? Is she well?”
The man smiled.
“Very well, sir, thank your honour.”
To add to my surprise, Mr. Marmaduke was pacing the drawing-room in a yellow night-gown. He met me with an expression I failed to fathom, and then my eye was held by a letter in his hand. He cleared his throat.
“Good morning, Richard,” said he, very serious,—very pompous, I thought. “I am pleased to see that you are so well out of the deplorable affair of last night.”
I had not looked for gratitude. In truth, I had done nothing for him, and Chartersea might have exposed him a highwayman for all I cared,—I had fought for Dolly. But this attitude astonished me. I was about to make a tart reply, and then thought better of it.