"Mr. Foley and Lady Elisabeth Landon are outside in a car. Mr. Foley's compliments, and if you could spare a moment, they would be glad to come in and see you."
Maraton hesitated.
"You had better let them come in.
"Shall I go?" Julia asked.
Maraton shook his head.
"Stay where you are," he enjoined. "Perhaps they will go sooner, if they see that I am at work with you."
Mr. Foley was in his best and happiest mood. He shook hands heartily with Maraton. Elisabeth said nothing at all, but Maraton was conscious of one swift look into his eyes, and of the—fact that her fingers rested in his several seconds longer than was necessary.
"We are profoundly mortified, both my niece and I," Mr. Foley said. "Never have I had so many journalists on my doorstep, even on that notorious Thursday when they thought that I was going to declare war. I really fancy, Maraton, that they are going to make a celebrity of you. Have you seen the papers?"
"I have read Selingman's sketch," Maraton replied.
"They say," Mr. Foley went on, "that he wrote all night at the office in Fleet Street, and that his sheets were flung into type as he wrote them. Selingman, too—the great Selingman! You know him?"