At this moment Payne entered, salver in hand.
“A telegram for you, my lady.”
“Oh,” picking it up, and tearing it open, “it’s from Martin. He is detained till Saturday—three whole days;” then, turning to the butler, she said, “You can take away the tea-table.”
As soon as the tea-things were removed, and Payne and his satellite had departed, Lady Kesters produced a gold case, selected a cigarette, settled herself comfortably in a corner of the sofa, and said—
“Now, Owen, light up, and let us have a pow-wow! Have you any plan in your head?”
“No,” he answered, “I’m afraid my head is, as usual, pretty empty, and of course this ultimatum of Uncle Richard’s has been a bit of a facer; I was in hopes he’d give me another chance.”
“What sort of chance?”
“Something in South Africa.”
“Something in South Africa has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has ruined lots of young men,” she said; “you would do no good there, O. You haven’t enough push, originality, or cheek; I believe you would find yourself a tram conductor in Cape Town.”
“Then what about India? I might get a billet on some tea estate—yes—and some shooting as well!”