“We’ll see about that,” thought Lytham. “This is not Fallaray who speaks. It’s the man of forty suddenly hit by passion. I’ll fight that girl to the last gasp. We must have this man, we must.”
He turned away, deeply disappointed at the queer tangent at which his chief had gone off, bitterly annoyed to find that here was a fight within a fight at a time when unity was vital. He was himself a perfectly normal creature who regarded the rustle of silk as one of the necessities, like golf and tobacco, but to sacrifice a career or let down a cause for the sake of a woman was to him an act of unimaginable weakness and folly. If only Fallaray had been younger or older, or, better still, had been contentedly married to Feo! Cursed bad luck that he had been caught at forty.—But, struck with an idea in which he could see immediate possibilities, he stopped on his way to the door and went back to Fallaray. To work it out in his usual energetic way he must use strategy and appear to accept his friend’s decision as irreparable. “All right,” he said. “You know best. I’ll argue no more. But as there’s no need now for me to dash back to town, mayn’t I linger with you in Arcadia for a couple of hours?”
Fallaray was delighted. Lola was to dine at Lady Cheyne’s, and he would be alone. It would be very jolly to have George to dinner, especially as he saw the futility of argument and recognized an ultimatum. “Stay and have some food,” he said. “I’ve much to tell you. But will you let me leave you for ten minutes?”
That was precisely what young Lochinvar intended to do before he drove away,—speak to that woman.
He watched Fallaray join Lola at the fountain, give her his hand and wander off among the rose trees, wearing what he called the fatuous smile of the middle-aged man in love. And then, so that he might obtain a point or two for future use, he rang the bell for Elmer. The butler and he had known each other for years. He would answer a few nonchalant questions without reserve. “Good afternoon, Elmer,” he said, when the old man came in.
“Good afternoon to you, Sir.” He might have been an actor who in palmy days had played Hamlet at Bristol.
“I’m staying to an early dinner with Mr. Fallaray. A whiskey and soda would go down rather well in the meantime.”
“Certainly, Sir.”
“Oh, and Elmer.”
“Sir?” His turn and the respectful familiar angle of his head were only possible to actors of the good old school.