On the first-floor landing they were met by a truly ridiculous
spectacle. There emerged from a doorway on the left of the wide
corridor an old gentleman clad in night-cap, night-shirt and bedroom
slippers, buttoning his breeches and cursing vigorously; while close
upon him followed a valet with dressing-gown on one arm, waistcoat
and wig on the other, vainly striving to keep pace with his master's
impatience.
"The braces, my lord--your Lordship has them forepart behind, if I
may suggest--"
"Damn the braces!" swore the old gentleman. "Where is he? Hi,
Tylney!" as he caught sight of the Secretary. "Where are we to go?
My room, I suppose?"
"The fire is out there, my lord. . . . 'Tis past three in the
morning. But after sending word to awake you, I hunted round and by
good luck found a plenty of promising embers in the Board Room grate.
On top of these I've piled what remained of my own fire, and Dobson
has set a lamp there--"
"You've been devilish quick, Tylney. Dressed like a buck you are,
too!"
"Your Lordship's wig," suggested the valet.
"Damn the wig!" Lord Barham snatched it and attempted to stick it on
top of his night-cap, damned the night-cap, and, plucking it off,
flung it to the man.
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