He knocked on the study door at the end of the room, and closed it after him when he had entered in response to a gruff command.
For some little time Miss Ocky tried to center her thoughts on her book, lifting her head to listen now and again as she paused in her reading to cut pages with her two-edged souvenir of Teheran. The conversation in the study appeared to be flowing along smoothly. She could not catch any words, nor did she try to; a shrewd listener can glean a good deal merely by interpreting the vocal tones of the different speakers. Her ear told her that Simon was certainly laying down the law but with no more than his usual acidity, and that his son was pleading his cause patiently and without acrimony. It was natural enough that he should hope up to the eleventh hour for a favorable change in his father's attitude, a foolish hope but a pardonable one—
Abruptly, Miss Ocky's ear cocked itself to a more alert angle. The voices in the study had suddenly altered. Simon had said something in his usual dictatorial accents, and Copley, instead of the soft answer that turneth away wrath, had snapped a crisp rejoinder in louder tones than any he had yet used. For a minute the two men were speaking at once, discharging verbal salvos at point-blank range. Miss Ocky shrugged her shoulders and smiled rather scornfully to herself. She was not surprised. Lucy had told her of Copley's youthful flashes of temper, which still persisted, though he had learned in some measure to control them.
She was trying to guess the probable outcome of the battle of words when her thoughts were interrupted from another quarter. The bell of the front door had rung violently, and Bates hurried from the pantry and along the hallway to answer it. Miss Ocky wondered who in the world could be calling at such an hour.
She knew in a moment. There was the briefest of parleys with the butler, and then, through the door of the living-room, she saw two men hurry rearward through the hall in the direction of the study. Evidently they proposed to present themselves before Varr without the formality of announcing themselves through Bates.
The first of the two she recognized instantly—it was Graham, the manager of the tannery, whom she had met several times. And he was Sheila's father! An awkward occasion for him to appear! The second man she did not know at all. He was smaller and slighter than Graham, a pale, anaemic creature. He lagged behind his companion, and as the latter kept a grip on his arm as they proceeded, he gave the effect of a lamb going reluctantly to the sacrifice.
Graham's face had been deeply flushed—so much she had had time to note as he swept past the open door. She heard him knock at the study—from sheer force of habit, no doubt, as he could not have waited for a summons to enter before flinging back the door. His voice carried clear to Miss Ocky's ear as he swiftly took up some remark he had caught from within.
"That will do, young man! I can fight my own battles with no help from you—!"
Obviously, events were marching to a proper row. Miss Ocky had no objection to rows when she could participate in them, but to sit by and listen to others enjoying themselves was merely boresome. She put her book on the table, marking her place with the Persian dagger, rose and left the room. The angry voices from the study followed her upstairs as she sought the quiet of her own room.
Here she found Janet Mackay, seated in a corner with a dozen new handkerchiefs of linen that she was adorning with exquisitely embroidered initials. She looked up, but continued her work without speaking.