'Hot? I dare say it is,' replied the landlord severely. 'And what else do
you expect at this time of the year, sir?'
'Just so, Mr. Fouracres, just so!' said the other, as good-humouredly as
possible. 'You don't find it unpleasant?'
'Why should I, sir? It was a good deal hotter day than this when His Royal
Highness called upon me; a good deal hotter. The Prince didn't complain;
not he. He said to me--I'm speaking of His Royal Highness, you understand;
I hope you understand that, sir?'
'Oh, perfectly!'
'His words were--"Very seasonable weather, Mr. Fouracres." I'm not likely
to forget what he said; so it's no use you or any one else trying to make
out that he didn't say that. I tell you he _did_! "Very season weather, Mr.
Fouracres"--calling me by name, just like that. And it's no good you nor
anybody else--'
The effort of repeating the Prince's utterance with what was meant to be a
princely accent proved so exhausting to Mr. Fouracres that he sank together
in his chair and lost all power of coherent speech. In a moment he seemed
to be sleeping. Having watched him a little while, Mr. Ruddiman spoke his
name, and tried to attract his attention; finding it useless he went back
into the inn.
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