“Don’t say that,” said Evanston. He held out his hand. “Carty, you are the only human being that understands or wants to understand.”
“Then,” said Mr. Carteret, “I’ll stay.”
It was nine o’clock, and they had finished dinner. From the dining-room the men went to the library to smoke, and Whitehouse’s friend, the Professor, began to talk. He was an Orientalist, and had recently discovered a buried city on the plateau of Iran. Mr. Carteret was not interested in buried cities, so he smoked and occupied himself with his own thoughts. From the distant part of the house came the music of a piano. He knew that it was Edith playing in the drawing-room. It occurred to him that it would be pleasant to go out upon the terrace and listen to the music. He was meditating the execution of this project when he saw Whittlesea slip out; the same idea had occurred to the lawyer.
Mr. Carteret watched him go with chagrin, but he felt that it would be rude for him to follow, so he sat where he was, and bore up under the buried city. The talk went on until suddenly the cathedral clock in the hallway began to strike in muffled arpeggios. Whitehouse started up and looked at his watch.
“It’s half-past nine,” he said to the Professor. “If you really must take the night train, we ought to be starting.”
“I’ll ring,” said Evanston, “and have somebody order your trap.”
“Thank you,” said Whitehouse, “I would rather order it myself; I want to speak to my man. I know where the stable telephone is.” He went out.
“I am sorry you have to go,” said Evanston to the Professor.
“So am I,” the Professor replied. “This has been a most delightful evening.”
Just then Whitehouse put his head in the door. “The stable telephone is out of order,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to send some one, after all.”