Carp had a great charm for Lord Kingsmead; so had
electricity; so had toads; so had buns, and stable-boys, and pianolas,
and armour, and curates, and chocolates.
Everything was full of interest to this interesting nobleman, and the
most beautiful part of it was that there was beyond Kingsmead and the
very restricted area of London that he had hitherto been allowed to
investigate, a whole world full of things strange, undreamed-of,
delightful, and, best of all, dangerous, to the study of which he meant
to dedicate every second of the time that spread between that moment as
he lay on the grass and the horrid hour when he should be carried to the
family vault surrounded by sobbing relations.
For Tommy Kingsmead was one of those most unusual persons who understand
the value of life as it dribbles through their fingers in seconds,
instead of, like most people, losing the vibrant present in a useless
(because invariably miscalculated) study of the future.
This morning he had devoted to a keen investigation of several matters
of palpitating interest.
Had Fledge, the butler, who had apparently been at Kingsmead since the
beginning of the world, any teeth, or did his flexible, long lips hide
only gums? Until that day the problem had never suggested itself to
Fledge's master, but when it did, it roused in him a passion of
curiosity that had to be satisfied, after the failure of a series of
diplomatic attempts by the putting of a plain question.
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