Lady Barmouth was in great trouble, and resembled more strongly than ever the heaving billows.  She had been so agitated several times lately that she had found it necessary to take medicinally red lavender drops, or else eau de Cologne, the latter by preference for its fragrance.

She was terribly troubled, for matters had not gone so satisfactorily as she could wish.  There had been a death in Sir Grantley Wilters’ family, and that gentleman had been unwell too, thanks to a fresh medicine man he had tried.

“And really,” said her ladyship, “that ungrateful child Maude does not show the slightest sympathy.”

“Fool if she did,” said Tom, who was in the drawing-room.  “What’s that fellow Bellman been here for again?”

“To see Tryphie, of course,” said her ladyship.

Tom was about to make some angry reply, when Maude came in with Lord
Barmouth leaning upon her arm, fresh from a walk, and Sir Grantley
Wilters, most carefully got up in deep mourning, following behind with
Tryphie.

“Now I appeal to your ladyship,” said Sir Grantley, as soon as the door was closed.

“There, there, there,” said Lord Barmouth, “let me tell it to her ladyship.  It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and ­and ­ and,” he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, “I won’t have my little girl here troubled about it.”

“For Heaven’s sake, behave like a gentleman if you can,” whispered her ladyship.

“Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will,” said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door.

“No, ’pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude,” said Sir Grantley.  “It concerns you so much, don’t you know.  Fact is, Lady Barmouth,” he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them ­“fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude’s handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped.”

“Well, suppose a dog did,” said Tom coming to his sister’s rescue; “I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose.”

“He, he, he!” chuckled his lordship; “that’s not bad, Tom;” while her ladyship looked daggers.

“Doosed good ­very doosed good,” said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom.  “If it had been another dog, it wouldn’t have mattered, but it was ­er ­er ­er ­a very particular dog.”

“Just as I said ­over his nose,” said Tom.

“It ­it ­it was Charley Melton’s dog,” said Lord Barmouth, and Maude’s face became crimson.

“Yes, and that’s the dayvle of it,” said Sir Grantley, angrily.  “I don’t choose for that fler’s dog to come and take such a liberty.  He was ­er ­hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship’s pocket, here, don’t you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief.  Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do ­damme!”

Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him.  This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up.

Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come.  So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.

“Really, Sir Grantley, it was very tiresome,” said her ladyship.

“He, he, he!” laughed his lordship, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and bending down in his chair to laugh with all the enjoyment of a schoolboy at Tom’s monkeyish trick.

“My dear!” exclaimed her ladyship.

“I ­I ­I was laughing at the con ­con ­confounded impudence of that dog,” said his lordship, mendaciously; and her ladyship mentally promised him one of her lectures.

“It was an accident that cannot possibly occur again,” continued her ladyship.  “Maude, my darling, pray go and take off your things.  Sir Grantley, you will stay lunch?”

“Thanks, no,” said the baronet, changing his position, giving his hat a turn, and flourishing out the Bath bun, which fell upon the carpet before him.

Her ladyship put up her eye-glass and stared at the bun; Sir Grantley gave his an extra twist and also stared at the bun, poking at it with his stick; and Maude and Tryphie escaped from the room.

“Didn’t know you were so fond of buns, Wilters,” said Tom.  “You should have them put in a paper bag.  They make your hat lining sticky.”

“That’s doosed funny, Diphoos,” said Sir Grantley.  “Very fond of a joke.  By the way, the amateurs are going to get up a pantomime next season.  Won’t you join them?  I’ll put in a word for you.  Make a doosed good clown, don’t you know. ­I think I had him there,” said the baronet to himself.

“I will, if you’ll play pantaloon,” said Tom sharply.  “You’d look the part to perfection.”

“Yas, doosed good,” said Sir Grantley.  “Day, Lady Barmouth; must go.  Day, Lord Barmouth;” and with a short nod at Tom, he left the house.

“Tom,” exclaimed her ladyship, “if you insult Sir Grantley any more like that you shall suffer for it.  If you behave like that, you will be the means of breaking off a most brilliant match.”

“Thanks,” said Tom, quietly, as her ladyship was sailing out of the room.  “You can’t make things worse for me.”

“Tom, my boy,” said his lordship, “you are ­are ­are ­a regular lion, that you are.  I don’t know what I should do without you.”

“Fight for yourself, father, I hope,” said the viscount, smiling, “I’m afraid I do more harm than good.”

Meanwhile, Sir Grantley Wilters, who had not the slightest thought of breaking off the match, let Diphoos behave as he would, went to keep a particular engagement that he had with Monsieur Hector Launay, who was singing away to himself about “La ­Fran-ce ­et ­la ­guer-re,” and standing before a glass with a pair of scissors cutting his black hair close to his skull.

He was ready on the instant, though, as Sir Grantley entered, showed him into his private room, and upon the baronet stating his case, to wit, his uneasiness about his hair, which he said was getting thin on the crown, gave the most earnest attention to the subject.

“I shouldn’t mind so much,” said Sir Grantley; “but I’m ­er ­going to be mar’d shortly, and I want to look my best.”

Monsieur Hector took a magnifying glass from a drawer, and gravely inspected the crown before him, ending by assuring the baronet that by the use of certain washes prepared by himself from peculiar and unique receipts he could restore the hairs that made him slightly thin upon the crown.

Sir Grantley, in full faith, resigned himself to the coiffeur’s hands, and was sponged and rubbed and scented during a space of about an hour, when he rose and paid a liberal fee, which made Monsieur Hector smile and bow.

Then he turned to go, but stopped short at the door and came back.

“Oh, Monsieur Launay, I’m told that you are a great friend of Mademoiselle Justine, Lady Barmouth’s maid.”

“I have that honour, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, bowing low.

“Ah, yes,” said Sir Grantley, hesitating.  “By the way, I am Sir Grantley Wilters.”

“I have heard mademoiselle mention Sir Vilter,” said the hairdresser, bowing.

“Yes, of course,” said the baronet.  “Look here, don’t you know, I’m engaged to Lady Maude Diphoos, and I want to save her from pain.  No spying ­moucharder ­but I should be glad to hear of anything that you think might interest me.  Mademoiselle Justine will tell you better what I mean.  Good-day.”

“Bah! ­Phit! ­Pst!  Big John Bull, fool!” cried Monsieur Hector as soon as he was alone; and he indulged in a peculiar saltatory exercise, indicative of kicking his client in the chest, and making derisive gestures with pointed fingers.  “You think I tell you what I know.  Pst!  Grand bête.  Big thin beast.  Cochon.  Peeg!  Come and be shampooed, and I had you by the nose and tell you noting.  Aha!  Be your spy?  No.  Justine tells me all, and I know so much that my head is full.  But wait you.  Aha!  Sir Vilter! wait you. Vive l’amour.”

He folded the cloth that had been spread over Sir Grantley’s shoulders with a jerk, and was in the act of putting it away, when something touched his leg, and looking down, it was to see Joby, and directly after Charley Melton entered the room.