"Look so infernally cheerful," murmured Lord Drewitt wearily. "Why is it?"
Hoskins radiated good-nature and happiness, as he raised his hand to smooth his already smooth fair hair, a habit of his.
"I suppose it's because I have nothing to worry me, my lord," he said, dodging into the bathroom and turning on the water, re-entering the bedroom a moment later.
"I wonder what you'd be like if you had two thousand a year, a title, and all the heiresses in two hemispheres hurled at your head."
"I should make the best of it, my lord," he replied.
"The best of it! Good heavens, man! how can you make the best of it?" demanded Lord Drewitt, as he sat up and proceeded wearily to stretch his arms behind his head. "How could you make the best of a woman with the face of a horse and a figure like a Rubens Venus?"
"I was reading the other day, my lord, that it's all a matter of digestion."
"Then you shouldn't read those damned cheap magazines. Wait until you are expected to marry an heiress. You will then find out that digestion has nothing whatever to do with it. You're getting sententious, Hoskins; you're getting confoundedly sententious. I've noticed it coming on."
Hoskins eyed his master imperturbably. He was accustomed to these morning monologues. Among
