Brown's blankness spread like the desert. 'To put them off?'
'Ah!' The sound was a groan; the plural pronoun, any pronoun, so mistimed. 'Who is it?'
'Those ladies you spoke of—to lunch.'
'Oh!' The poor man dropped into the nearest chair and stared awhile at the carpet. It was very complicated.
'How many will there be, sir?' Brown asked.
'Fifty!'
'Fifty, sir?'
Our friend, from his chair, looked vaguely about; under his hand were the telegrams, still unopened, one of which he now tore asunder. '"Do hope you sweetly won't mind, to-day, 1.30, my bringing poor dear Lady Mullet, who is so awfully bent," he read to his companion.
His companion weighed it. 'How many does she make, sir?'
'Poor dear Lady Mullet? I haven't the least idea.'
'Is she—a—deformed, sir?' Brown inquired, as if in this case she might make more.
His master wondered, then saw he figured some personal curvature. 'No; she's only bent on coming!' Dane opened the other telegram and again read out: '"So sorry it's at eleventh hour impossible, and count on you here, as very greatest favour, at two sharp instead."'
'How many does that make?' Brown imperturbably continued.
Dane crumpled up the two missives and walked with them to the waste-paper basket, into which he thoughtfully dropped them. 'I can't say. You must do it all yourself. I shan't be there.'
It was only on this that Brown showed an expression. 'You'll go instead———'
'I'll go instead!' Dane raved.
Brown, however, had had occasion to show before that he would never desert their post. 'Isn't that rather sacrificing the three?' Between respect and reproach he paused.
