"No. War news and no news." But Stafford's frown was not that of a man who had received a wire about nothing.
"You are not joining anything?" the General asked.
"Not at present, sir. I am tied here."
Stafford tore the telegram up, then walked to the fire and threw the pieces in carefully.
General Brownlow's man was a success in his own circle. Old Naylour reported upon him as a dacent boy, with a twisht of fun in him; this privately to Gheena.
It was a still, muggy night, and as the air in the library grew heavy with smoke, and the possibilities of making tricks at Bridge were carefully considered, Crabbit flung himself with a wild "Bow-wow" against the window panes. Naylour at the moment was putting down a large silver tray laden with syphons and decanters and a jug of boiling water. Gheena promptly let her dog out, letting in a sough of cold raw air, which struck the heavy heated atmosphere almost as with a blow.
Crabbit trailed off, yelping excitedly, followed by her owner with her light dress festooned above her arms and her airy petticoat fluttering round her ankles.
"Unless it is rabbits it is a man," said Naylour decidedly. "That Crabbit has the nose on him."
Someone asked if the dog would bite, and Gheena returned talking affably to General Brownlow's man, who, it appeared, had gone out for a stroll.
"Being devoted to the sea air, Miss," he said pleasantly, "and longing for a smell of it, cold as it is."