A moment later the absentees came in; Sir Roger in his usual leisurely fashion, Laing; hurriedly. The latter held in his hand two telegrams, or the crumpled dibris thereof. He rushed up to the table and panted out, “Found ‘em in the pocket of my blazer—must have put ‘em there—stupid ass—never thought of it—put it on for tennis—awfully sorry.”
Wasting no time in reproaches, Dora and Charlie grasped their recovered property.
“Excuse me!” they cried simultaneously, and opened the envelopes. A moment later both leant back in their chairs, the pictures of helpless bewilderment.
Dora had read: “Marriage broken off. Coming to you 28th. Write directions—European, Paris.”
Charlie had read: “Engagement at end. Aunt and I coming to Paris—European, on 28th. Can you meet?”
Lady Deane was writing in her notebook. The General, Sir Roger, and Laing were busy with the waiter, the menu, and the wine-list. Quick as thought the lovers exchanged telegrams. They read, and looked at one another.
“What does it mean?” whispered Dora.
“You never saw anything like the lives those ragpickers lead, Dora,” observed Lady Deane, looking up from her task. “I was talking to one this morning and he said——”
“Maitre d’hotel for me,” broke in Sir Roger.
“I haven’t a notion,” murmured Charlie.