"Then take them away," says Sir Leicester. "Tulkinghorn, I beg your pardon. How do you do?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his passing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester's hand, and subsides into the chair proper to him when he has anything to communicate, on the opposite side of the Baronet's little newspaper-table. Sir Leicester is apprehensive that my Lady, not being very well, will take cold at that open window. My Lady is obliged to him, but would rather sit there for the air. Sir Leicester rises, adjusts her scarf about her, and returns to his seat. Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile takes a pinch of snuff.
"Now," says Sir Leicester. "How has that contest gone?"

"Tulkinghorn," says Sir Leicester. "How do you do?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, bows to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester's hand, and subsides into the chair opposite the Baronet's newspaper-table. Sir Leicester fears that my Lady, not being very well, will take cold at that open window. My Lady is obliged to him, but would rather sit there for the air. Sir Leicester rises, adjusts her scarf about her, and returns to his seat.
"Now," says Sir Leicester. "How has that contest gone?"
