The principal misfortune of Lord Caterham’s life was to have succeeded his brother, the eighth Marquis, four years ago. For the previous Lord Caterham had been a man of mark, a household word all over England. At one time Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he had always bulked largely in the counsels of the Empire, and his country seat, Chimneys, was famous for its hospitality. Ably seconded by his wife, a daughter of the Duke of Perth, history had been made and unmade at informal week-end parties at Chimneys, and there was hardly anyone of note in England—or indeed in Europe—who had not, at one time or another, stayed there.
That was all very well. The ninth Marquis of Caterham had the utmost respect and esteem for the memory of his brother. Henry had done that kind of thing magnificently. What Lord Caterham objected to was the assumption that he was bound to follow in his brother’s footsteps, and that Chimneys was a National possession rather than a private country house. There was nothing that bored Lord Caterham more than politics—unless it was politicians. Hence his impatience under the continued eloquence of George Lomax. A robust man, George Lomax, inclined to embonpoint, with a red face and protuberant eyes, and an immense sense of his own importance.
“You see the point, Caterham? We can’t—we simply can’t afford a scandal of any kind just now. The position is one of the utmost delicacy.”
“It always is,” said Lord Caterham, with a flavour of irony.
“My dear fellow, I’m in a position to know!”
“Oh, quite so, quite so,” said Lord Caterham, falling back upon his previous line of defence.
“One slip over this Herzoslovakian business and we’re done. It is most important that the Oil concessions should be granted to a British company. You must see that?”
“Of course, of course.”
“Prince Michael Obolovitch arrives the end of the week, and the whole thing can be carried through at Chimneys under the guise of a shooting party.”
“I was thinking of going abroad this week,” said Lord Caterham.