Читать книгу The storm of London: a social rhapsody онлайн

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“This is funny! What the devil does it mean? Have these people gone clean mad? Why does not the police stop them?”

Lionel left the window and rang the bell. A few seconds after there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Yes, my lord.” It was the suave voice of Temple, my lord’s faithful valet.

“I say, Temple”—Lionel spoke through the door—“what’s the meaning of all this?”

“I cannot tell, my lord. Your lordship’s bathroom is ready, and breakfast is on the table.”

“You must be mad, Temple! How am I to get out of this room without my clothes? Bring in something—anything—a wrap of some sort, a bath-rug.”

“Not one to be found, my lord, and all the shops are closed.”

“How are you clad, Temple?”

“I’ve nothing on, my lord, and Willows, Mr Jacques, are all in the same condition. But I can assure your lordship that the morning is very hot.”

“And you think that sufficient, do you? Well, I don’t! I am blowed if I can make this out, or if I know what I am going to do. Bring me a tub, a large can of hot water, and later on bring me a tray with a couple of eggs and tea. I am famished!”