"Pray do not let me stand in your way," Mrs. Bundercombe declared, rising. "My time will be fully occupied. I wish you good morning, Mr. Walmsley. I have an appointment at a quarter to twelve. You can let me know your final decision at luncheon-time."
She left the room. Mr. Bundercombe, Eve, and I exchanged glances.
"How far away did you say your place was, Paul?" Mr. Bundercombe asked.
"Right in the country," I told him—"takes you about an hour and a half to get there."
"I think we'll come," Mr. Bundercombe decided, looking absently out the window and watching his wife eloquently admonish a taxicab driver, who had driven up with a cigarette in his mouth. "Yes, I'm all for it!"
My little party at Walmsley Hall was in most respects a complete success. My sister was able to come and play hostess, and Eve was charmed with my house and its surroundings. Mr. Bundercombe, however, was a source of some little anxiety. On the first morning, when we were all preparing to go out, he drew me on one side.
"Paul," he said—he had, with some difficulty, got into the way of calling me by my Christian name occasionally —"I want to get wise to this thing. Where does your political boss hang out?"
"We haven't such a person," I told him.
He seemed troubled. The more he inquired into our electioneering habits, the less he seemed to understand them.
"What's your platform, anyway?" he asked.