“He is almost as worried as I am, poor little man,” Lady Deringham said. “I am afraid every day that he will give it up and leave. We are paying him five hundred a year, but it must be miserable work for him. It is really almost amusing, though, to see how terrified he is at your father. He positively shakes when he speaks to him.”
“What does he have to do?” Wolfenden asked.
“Oh, draw maps and make calculations and copy all sorts of things. You see it is wasted and purposeless work, that is what makes it so hard for the poor man.”
“You are quite sure, I suppose,” Wolfenden asked, after a moment’s hesitation, “that it is all wasted work?”
“Absolutely,” the Countess declared. “Mr. Blatherwick brings me, sometimes in despair, sheets upon which he has been engaged for days. They are all just a hopeless tangle of figures and wild calculations! Nobody could possibly make anything coherent out of them.”
“I wonder,” Wolfenden suggested thoughtfully, “whether it would be a good idea to get Denvers, the secretary, to write and ask him not to go on with the work for the present. He could easily make some excuse—say that it was attracting attention which they desired to avoid, or something of that sort! Denvers is a good fellow, and he and the Admiral were great friends once, weren’t they?”
The Countess shook her head.
“I am afraid that would not do at all,” she said. “Besides, out of pure good nature, of course, Denvers has already encouraged him. Only last week he wrote him a friendly letter hoping that he was getting on, and telling him how interested every one in the War Office was to hear about his work. He has known about it all the time, you see. Then, too, if the occupation were taken from your father, I am afraid he would break down altogether.”
“Of course there is that to be feared,” Wolfenden admitted. “I wonder what put this new delusion into his head? Does he suspect any one in particular?”
The Countess shook her head.