"And Lady Florence! Ye gods! Wonder what she thinks!"
The smile developed into a snigger, and vanished at a breath.
"But it's really infernally awkward," he declared. "Ought one to go and
apologise for what one hasn't done? Really, I don't know if I dare!"
Again, as one searching for inspiration, he read the brief paragraph.
"It looks to me, Cecil Mordaunt, as if you are in for a very warm time,"
he remarked at the end of this final inspection. "Such a time as you
haven't had since you left Rugby. If you take my advice you'll sit tight
like a sensible chap and leave this business to engineer itself. No good
ever came of meddling."
With which practical reflection he rose to fill and light a briar pipe,
his inseparable companion, before grappling with his morning
correspondence.
This lay in a neat pile at his elbow, and after a ruminative pause
devoted to the briar pipe, he applied himself deliberately to its
consideration.
The first two he examined and tossed aside with a bored expression. The
third seemed to excite his interest. It was directed in a nervous,
irregular hand that had tried too hard to be firm, and had spluttered
the ink in consequence. The envelope was of a pearly grey tint. The Poor
Relation sniffed at it, and turned up his nose.
Nevertheless, he opened the missive with a promptitude that testified to
a certain amount of curiosity.
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