There were India, South Africa, Australia--a dozen places
that would do. And then he would remember Betty Vanderpoel, and curse
horribly under the bed clothes. It was the memory of Betty which outdid
all others in its power to torment.
On the morning of the fifth day the Duke of Broadmorlands received a
note, which he read with somewhat annoyed curiosity. A certain Sir Nigel
Anstruthers, whom it appeared he ought to be able to recall, was in the
neighbourhood, and wished to see him on a parochial matter of interest.
"Parochial matter" was vague, and so was the Duke's recollection of the
man who addressed him. If his memory served him rightly, he had met
him in a country house in Somersetshire, and had heard that he was the
acquaintance of the disreputable eldest son. What could a person of that
sort have to say of parochial matters? The Duke considered, and then, in
obedience to a rigorous conscience, decided that one ought, perhaps, to
give him half an hour.
There was that in the intruder's aspect, when he arrived in the
afternoon, which produced somewhat the effect of shock. In the first
place, a man in his unconcealable physical condition had no right to be
out of his bed. Though he plainly refused to admit the fact, his manner
of bearing himself erect, and even with a certain touch of cool swagger,
was, it was evident, achieved only by determined effort.
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