Nor did he soften the blow by any excuse whatsoever. “I hope you’re not planning to put that thing in my saloon,” he said curtly, when Lord Howard descended for dinner that evening. One of his white-clad servants walked behind him, carrying the glass case. “The room is already overcrowded with Indian gewgaws.” The nabob’s brow puckered in quick anger. He gave Monteith a killing shot from his dark eyes, but after a moment, a smile broke. “It was my intention,” he admitted, “but I can see the thing from your point of view, lad. These are my treasures; they’d mean nothing to you— why should they? They don’t suit your more refined style.” He spoke to the servant in some Indian dialect. The servant bowed a few times and disappeared back up the stairs. Lord Howard turned an approving eye on Monteith and said, “It’s high time you took hold of matters in your own house, lad. There’s hope for you yet. I was beginning to fear you was tied to Irene’s apron strings.
