CHAPTER III
BORROWED PLUMAGE
The word phew may have a somewhat indefinite position in the English language, but there was no mistaking the tone in which Mr. Edward Povey said it as he sank wearily into the depths of one of the handsome green leather chairs that stood on either side of the fireplace in the dining-room at Adderbury Cottage, Bushey Heath. The tone of the ejaculation plainly indicated escape, or at any rate temporary relief from a severe nerve-racking strain.
At the further side of the table beneath the great crimson shaded lamp sat Charlotte, her fingers drumming a nervous tattoo upon the polished black oak beneath them. She, too, like her husband showed signs of severe nervous prostration. She raised her head as though about to answer Edward's ejaculation but sighed instead and fell again to her incessant tapping.
"Do stop that infernal row, Charlotte; you sit there and tap, tap, tap, as though—as though—well, give it a rest, it's getting nervy," then after a pause, "where have you put them?"
"Them?"
"Yes,—our honoured guests—making themselves at home, aren't they? Have you noticed, Charlotte, that there's been no mention of how long they're going to stay?"
"I've put them in the room above this. I expect it's old Kyser's room when he's at home here, all chintz and Sheraton."
Edward Povey sat silent for a few moments, gazing stolidly into the fire that was burning brightly in the old-fashioned fire-place. Then he got up and with hands thrust deep in his pockets strode up and down the room, his steps making no sound on the rich turkey carpet.