"Where's Viviette?" he asked eventually. "Who?" growled Dick. "Rot. What's the good of frills? Miss Hastings." "Busy. She'll be busy all the morning." "I rather wanted to see her." "I don't think you will. You might ring at the front door and send in your card." "I might," said Banstead, lighting a cigar. He had tried this method of seeing Viviette before, but without success. There was another pause. Dick snipped off an end of bast. "You're up very early," said he. "Went to bed so bally sober I couldn't sleep," replied the misguided youth. "Not a soul in the house, I give you my word. So bored last night I took a gun and tried to shoot cats. Shot a damn cock pheasant by mistake, and had to bury the thing in my own covers. If I'm left to myself to-night I'll get drunk and go out shooting tenants. Come over and dine." "Can't," said Dick. "Do. I'll open a bottle of the governor's old port. Then we can play billiards, or piquet, or cat's-cradle, or any rotten thing you like." Dick excused himself curtly. Austin had come down for Whitsuntide, and a lady was staying in the house. Lord Banstead pushed his hat to the back of his head. "Then what the devil am I to do in this hole of a place?" "Don't know," said Dick. "You fellows in the country are so unfriendly. In town I never need dine alone. Anyone's glad to see me. Feeding all by myself in that dining-room fairly gives me the pip." "Then come and dine here," said Dick, unable to refuse a neighbour hospitality. "Right," said Banstead. "That is really like the Samaritan Johnnie. I'll come with pleasure." "Quarter to eight." Banstead hesitated. "Couldn't you make it a quarter past?" Dick stared. "Alter our dinner hour? You've rather a nerve, haven't you, Banstead?" "I wouldn't suggest it, if we weren't pals," replied the other, grinning somewhat shamefacedly. "But the fact is I've got an appointment late this afternoon." The fatuity of vicious and coroneted youth outstripped his discretion. "There's a devilish pretty girl, you know, at 'The Green Man' at Little Barton; I don't know whether I can get away in time." Dick stuffed his bast in his pocket, and muttered things uncomplimentary to Banstead. "Dinner's at a quarter to eight. You can take it or leave it," said he. "I suppose I've jolly well got to take it," said Banstead, unruffled. "Anything's better than going through dinner from soup to dessert all alone under the fishy eye of that butling image of a Jenkins. He was thirty years in my governor's service, and doesn't understand my ways. I guess I'll have to chuck him." A perspiring, straw-hatted postman lurched along the gravel drive with the morning's post. He touched his hat to Dick, delivered the Manor House bag into his hands, and departed.