Dinner passed off with the decorous solemnity of that meal, at which the most emphatic utterances were the butler’s ‘Marcobrunner,’ or ‘Johannisberg.’ The guests, indeed, spoke little, and the strangeness of their situation rather disposed to thought than conversation.
‘You are going to Constantinople to-morrow, Mr. Atlee, my uncle tells me,’ said she, after a longer silence than usual.
‘Yes; his Excellency has charged me with a message, of which I hope to acquit myself well, though I own to my misgivings about it now.’
‘You are too diffident, perhaps, of your powers,’ said she; and there was a faint curl of the lip that made the words sound equivocally.
‘I do not know if great modesty be amongst my failings,’ said he laughingly. ‘My friends would say not.’
‘You mean, perhaps, that you are not without ambitions?’
‘That is true. I confess to very bold ones.’ And as he spoke he stole a glance towards her; but her pale face never changed.
‘I wish, before you had gone, that you had settled that stupid muddle about the attack on—I forget the place.’
‘Kilgobbin?’
‘Yes, Kil-gobbin—horrid name!—for the Premier still persists in thinking there was something in it, and worrying my uncle for explanations; and as somebody is to ask something when Parliament meets, it would be as well to have a letter to read to the House.’