''
Belturbet, who had made several fruitless attempts to ring up his
young friend since the fateful morning in St. James's Park, ran him
to earth one afternoon at his club, smooth and spruce and unruffled
as ever.
``Tell me, what on earth have you turned Cocksley Coxon into?''
Belturbet asked anxiously, mentioning the name of one of the pillars
of unorthodoxy in the Anglican Church. ``I don't fancy he _believes_
in angels, and if he finds an angel preaching orthodox sermons
from his pulpit while he's been turned into a fox-terrier, he'll
develop rabies in less than no time.''
``I rather think it was a fox-terrier,'' said the Duke lazily.
Belturbet groaned heavily, and sank into a chair.
``Look here, Eug
ne,'' he whispered hoarsely, having first looked
well round to see that no one was within hearing range, ``you've got
to stop it. Consols are jumping up and down like bronchos, and
that speech of Halfour's in the House last night has simply startled
everybody out of their wits. And then on the top if it, Thistlebery---''
``What has he been saying?'' asked the Duke quickly.
``Nothing. That's just what's so disturbing.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244