Attlebury neither argued nor rebuked. "Is there anybody who has influence with her—whom she likes and relies on?"
"I should hate anybody else being dragged into it—except you, of course. I asked her to come to you."
"Oh, I know I'm suspect. I should be no good." He smiled contentedly. "Nobody you can think of?"
"Well, the man she consulted about it was Hobart Gaynor." His tone was full of grudging dislike of such a consultation.
"Hobart Gaynor? Yes, I know him. Not a bad choice of hers, Cyril, if she felt she had to go to some one. Not quite our way of thinking, but a very good fellow."
"Why is he to poke his nose into my affairs?"
"Come, come, she poked her pretty nose into his office, no doubt, and probably he'd much rather she hadn't. I've experience of ladies in distress, Cyril. I am, in fact, as the Great Duke said of authors—when he was Chancellor of Oxford, you know—much exposed to them."
"I didn't come here to discuss Hobart Gaynor."
"I hope we sometimes do wiser things than we come to do—or what's the good of a talk? Let's discuss Hobart Gaynor in the light of—say—an ambassador, or a go-between. You're looking very formidable, Cyril. Did you often look at Mrs. Maxon like that? If so, I hope she'd done something really wicked. Because, if she hadn't, you did."
For just that moment the note of rebuke and authority rang clear in his voice. The next, he was the friend, the counsellor, the diplomatist again.