"Hallo, Banstead," said Dick, not very cordially.
"Hallo," said the other, halting before the rose-bed, where Dick was
tying up some blooms with bast. He watched him for a moment or two.
Conversation was not spontaneous.
"Where's Viviette?" he asked eventually.
"Who?" growled Dick.
"Rot. What's the good of frills? Miss Hastings."
"Busy. She'll be busy all the morning."
"I rather wanted to see her."
"I don't think you will. You might ring at the front door and send in
your card."
"I might," said Banstead, lighting a cigar. He had tried this method of
seeing Viviette before, but without success. There was another pause.
Dick snipped off an end of bast.
"You're up very early," said he.
"Went to bed so bally sober I couldn't sleep," replied the misguided
youth. "Not a soul in the house, I give you my word. So bored last night
I took a gun and tried to shoot cats. Shot a damn cock pheasant by
mistake, and had to bury the thing in my own covers. If I'm left to
myself to-night I'll get drunk and go out shooting tenants.
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