“What?” he said.
“Yes, she almost urged me, though I didn’t need urging.”
Lanley didn’t answer, but presently went out in silence. He was experiencing the extreme loneliness that follows being more royalist than the king.
CHAPTER XVII
On Mondays and Thursdays, the only days Mr. Lanley went down-town, he expected to have the corner table at the restaurant where he always lunched and where, on leaving Farron’s office, he went. He had barely finished ordering luncheon—oyster stew, cold tongue, salad, and a bottle of Rhine wine—when, looking up, he saw Wilsey was approaching him, beaming.
“Haryer, Wilsey?” he said, without cordiality.
Wilsey, it fortunately appeared, had already had his midday meal, and had only a moment or two to give to sociability.
“Haven’t seen you since that delightful evening,” he murmured. “I hope Mrs. Baxter got my card.” He mentioned his card as if it had been a gift, not munificent, but not negligible, either.
“Suppose she got it if you left it,” said Mr. Lanley, who had heard her comment on it. “My man’s pretty good at that sort of thing.”
“Ah, how rare they are getting!” said Wilsey, with a sigh—“good servants. Upon my word, Lanley, I’m almost ready to go.”