Breakfast at the Castle was a sufficiently cheerful meal, chiefly owing to the efforts of Jacob and the Marquis. Mr. Dane Montague came limping past the windows but made no attempt to join the party. Hartwell was reported locked in his room, and the Marchioness, who came a little late, seemed utterly unaware that anything unusual had happened.
“So glad to see you back again, Mr. Pratt,” she murmured. “I trust that you enjoyed your visit to your friends.”
“You are very kind,” Jacob replied, a little staggered.
“Mr. Pratt brings us bad news,” the Marquis intervened suavely. “He is compelled to return to London this morning.”
“Mary will be very disappointed,” the Marchioness observed. “She has been so looking forward to some more tennis.”
“If Mr. Pratt felt able to reconsider his decision,” her husband began—
“Impossible!” Jacob interrupted curtly. “There are considerations,” he added, “which I cannot altogether ignore.”
“Bit of an exodus, I should imagine,” Felixstowe remarked. “Our friend Mr. Hartwell was just ringing for a Bradshaw as I came down.”
“It is so difficult to amuse guests before the shooting begins,” the Marchioness sighed.
Dauncey ate his breakfast in almost stupefied silence. He found himself alone with Jacob for a moment in the hall afterwards.