"Perhaps not; though you never know. Anyhow, he's a new man, and I think we've saddled ourselves with quite enough of them. I think we ought to get back to the old sort—the men who come of good stock. They've always been the backbone of our party, and—"
The speaker was surprised by the appearance of the man he had been criticizing. Sir William stood in the arched recess at the end of the room, his pen in his hand, and a smile upon his face.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "I've been writing in there, and have only just realized that you were talking about me."
The young men stared at him in consternation, and he spoke again, with the air of one who meant to dominate the situation. That was exactly what he did mean. A sudden crisis always strung him up to the most effective control of his powers, and he had formed his decision in the few seconds that had elapsed between the mention of his name and his standing before them.
"I really haven't been listening," he said. "I was too busy with what I was doing, or I'd have stopped you before. But I'm not exactly a new man, you know. You can look me up in a book, if you like. Eldridge of Hayslope, in Downshire. And I give you my word I haven't made a bob out of the war." Then he turned to go back to his writing.
William Despencer had been collecting himself during this speech. He was a young man of a serious cast of mind, conspicuously honest and straightforward, though of an outlook not of the widest. "I'm sorry you overheard what we were saying," he said. "And I apologize for the mistake I seem to have made. I'm glad you corrected me."
Sir William turned to him again, but Nigel Byrne broke in before he could speak. "You heard me defend you," he said with a pleasant smile, which, with his attractive appearance and ready speech was part of his qualification for the position he so admirably filled. "William was talking generally, and I happened to know that you weren't of the type. You'd have heard me say so when he came to the end of his speech; but he's always too long-winded."
"Oh, I don't mind that a bit," said Sir William. "I've been doing the things that the new men do—and some of the old ones too—for some years past. It was a natural mistake. I'm only sorry I let you in for it by keeping quiet in here. To tell you the truth, I wasn't thinking of you. Perhaps I ought to apologize for that. Anyhow, please forget it."
"We will," said Byrne. "No offence meant and none taken, eh? I was coming to look for you after William and I had had our little game. The Chief wants you to go for a stroll with him at half-past three, if it clears up, and if not, will you go and have a chat with him in his room? I'll take you to him."
The invitation was so significant that it put out of Sir William's mind the awkwardness of the late occurrence, as he waited for the time when the great man should be ready for him. Perhaps it was only a mark of politeness to a guest, and there would be talk about this and that, but about nothing that would matter much to him. The work that they had been engaged upon together was over, and Lord Chippenham was not likely to want to go back to that. What could he want to see him about then? He hardly permitted himself to conjecture; but there was a sense of excitement hanging over him, and he looked many times at his watch as he went here and there in the house and examined the pictures and the other treasures of it, with appreciation, but not with all his attention.