Somebody is coming down the passage. You do understand, don't you? Sprained wrist is the watchword."
The handle turned. It was Lord Dreever, back again from his interview.
"Hullo, Dreever," said Jimmy. "We've missed you. Hargate has been doing his best to amuse me with acrobatic tricks. But you're too reckless, Hargate, old man. Mark my words, one of these days you'll be spraining your wrist. You should be more careful. What, going? Good-night. Pleasant fellow, Hargate," he added, as the footsteps retreated down the passage. "Well, my lad, what's the matter with you? You look depressed."
Lord Dreever flung himself on to the lounge, and groaned hollowly.
"Damn! Damn!! Damn!!!" he observed.
His glassy eye met Jimmy's, and wandered away again.
"What on earth's the matter?" demanded Jimmy. "You go out of here caroling like a song-bird, and you come back moaning like a lost soul. What's happened?"
"Give me a brandy-and-soda, Pitt, old man. There's a good chap. I'm in a fearful hole."
"Why? What's the matter?"
"I'm engaged," groaned his lordship.
"Engaged! I wish you'd explain. What on earth's wrong with you? Don't you want to be engaged? What's your—?"
