Clifford murmured on rather disjointedly, and Bertha read without listening much, occasionally making some remark, when the telephone rang.
Bertha had an extension on the little table next to her sofa.
“Shall I go?” asked Clifford.
“No. Just to the other end of the room.”
He obeyed, and fell into the depths of a fat arm-chair.
“That you, Nigel? How is it all going on? Madeline hasn’t heard from him lately—not for ages.”
“Quite so,” answered Nigel’s voice. “I’ve found out something I want you to know. It isn’t really serious—at least I’m pretty sure I can put it right, but I’d like to see you about it; it wouldn’t take you a moment.”
“But is it a thing that may make any difference?” she asked rather anxiously.
“No. Not if it’s taken in time,” he answered.
“Oh, can’t you ’phone about it, Nigel?”