Ping went the heart of the heir to the barony. He rose from his chair of russia leather, lately recovered at the behest of the Committee, and trod softly across the turkey carpet, old but good.
"Fathead," said the heir to the barony—for this coarse familiarity we can only offer the excuse that the Great Man had always been Fathead to his familiars since his Oxford days—"Fathead," said the heir to the barony, "I want to talk to you."
Fathead almost looked as though he had no desire to converse with the too-familiar groundling, being due to take the Dowager Duchess of Bayswater to dine at the Ritz Hotel.
But on all occasions Arminius knew how to assume the air of the bon camarade.
"Fire away. Only five minutes. Dining old Polly Bayswater at the Ritz."
"More fool you," said the profane young man.
Alas! that nothing is sacred to the helots of the Button Club.
"Come into the smoking-room, where we can talk a bit."
"Five minutes only," said Arminius Wingrove, fixing his eyeglass with his accustomed air of mental power.
The heir to the barony laid hold of the arm of the famous dramatist, as though he didn't intend to let it
