But who was to beard Lady Harriet in her den? There was no eagerness to undertake the task; yet everybody agreed that a personal interview was the only chance. Grantley fairly "funked it," and honestly said so. Raymore's nerves were still so upset that his excuses were accepted—it was morally certain that Harriet, if she became angry, would taunt him about his boy. Selford? That was absurd. And it was not a woman's work. The lot fell on John Fanshaw—John, with his business prestige and high reputation for common sense. And Lady Harriet liked him best of them all. The choice was felt to be excellent by everyone—except John himself.
"Haven't I enough worries of my own?" he demanded. "Why the devil am I to take on Tom Courtland's too?"
"Oh, do try! It can't hurt you if she does fly into a passion, John."
He grumbled a great deal more; and Christine, in an unusually chastened mood, performed the wifely function of meeting his grumbles with mingled consolation and praise.
"Well, I'll go on Sunday," he said at last, and added, with a look across the table: "Perhaps some of my own troubles will be off my mind by then."
Christine flushed a little.
"Oh, I hope so," she said rather forlornly.
"I do hope so!" he declared emphatically. "I build great hopes on it. It is to-day you're going, isn't it?"
"Yes, to-day. After lunch I said I'd come."
"Did he write back cordially?"