Mr. Carteret heard the music stop in the drawing-room, and he knew that the Professor was taking his leave. He heard it begin again, and he knew that the guests had gone.
“I must go myself,” he thought. “Evanston wants to talk with Whittlesea.”
He was about to rise when he glanced idly at the sheet of paper which the Professor had given him. Mr. Carteret was not fond of poetry. He considered it a branch of knowledge which concerned only women and literary persons. But the words of the translation that he held in his hand he read a first time, then a second time, then a third time.
He rose, with a startled sense of being on the brink of discovery, and then Evanston came in.
“You are not going,” said Evanston.
“No,” said Mr. Carteret, vaguely. “Frank,” he went on, “do you know anything about that sofa pillow?”
“What sofa pillow?” asked Evanston.
Mr. Carteret took the cushion with the strange embroidery, and held it in the lamplight.
“That?” said Evanston—“Edith gave me that.”