Mr. Naylor drew a little nearer and listened. The General had put himself into the corner, a remote corner of the room, and sat there with an uneasy and rather glowering aspect.
“Oh no, no!” answered Beaumaroy. “A matter of weeks only. But the dear old fellow seemed to take to me—a friend put us in touch originally. I seem to be able to do just what he wants.”
“I hope your friend is not really ill, not seriously?” This time the question was Mrs. Naylor’s, not Miss Delia’s.
“His health is really not so bad, but,” he gave a glance round the company, as though inviting their understanding, “he insists that he’s not the man he was.”
“Absurd!” smiled Naylor. “Not much older than I am, is he?”
“Only just turned seventy, I believe. But the idea’s very persistent.”
“Hypochondria!” snapped Miss Delia.
“Not altogether. I’m afraid there is a little real heart trouble. Dr. Irechester—”
“Oh, with Dr. Irechester, dear Mr. Beaumaroy, you’re all right!”
Again Beaumaroy’s glance—that glance of innocent appeal—ranged over the company (except the General, out of its reach). He seemed troubled and embarrassed.