“Con-found those organs!” said the Earl of Barmouth.
“And frustrate their grinders,” cried Viscount Diphoos.
“They are such a nuisance, my boy.”
“True, oh sire,” replied the viscount, who had the heels of his patent leather shoes on the library chimney-piece of the town mansion in Portland Place. He had reached that spot with difficulty, and was smoking a cigar, to calm his nerves for what he called the operation.
“Tom, my boy.”
“Yes, gov’nor.”
“If her ladyship faints – ”
“If what?” cried the viscount, bringing his heels into the fender with a crash.
“If – if – don’t speak so sharply, my dear Tom; it jars my back, and sets that confounded gout jigging and tearing at me all up my leg. I say, if her ladyship faints when we come back from the church, will you be ready to catch her. I’m afraid if I tried I should let her down, and it would look so bad before the servants.”
“Be too heavy for you, eh, gov’nor?” said Tom, grinning, as he mentally conjured up the scene.