“Oh, father!”
“Yes, you are. You can’t tell what’s on purpose with you and what isn’t; you’re all over the place.”
It was perfectly untrue, of course, but they laughed all the same.
“That’s a poor excuse, father,” said Gerald. “I knew he’d spot it. It’s through spotting things like that that he manages to wrangle interviews with all these pots.”
“Perhaps it is, perhaps it is; I’m bothered if I know how he does it.” And Roland and Muriel exchanged a swift glance of confederacy; a feeling that was increased when the last post arrived and Mr. Marston interrupted the general conversation with a piece of news his letter had brought him.
“My dear, here’s a funny thing. I never saw it in the papers, though I suppose it must have been in them. But that fellow Brumenhein is dead.”
“Brumenhein!”
“Yes, you know—the fellow whom the Kaiser thought such a lot of. People said he might very likely supplant Griegenbach.”
“I didn’t dare look at you,” Roland said to Muriel afterwards. “I couldn’t have kept a straight face if I had.”
“And what a bit of luck.”