"What matter?" I asked quietly.
My father coughed and looked towards my stepmother, as though for guidance. But her face was a blank.
"Guy," he said, "I am sure that you are a young man of common sense. You will prefer that I speak to you plainly. There are some fools at our end—I mean at Paris—who think they will be better off for a glance at the doings of your Military Board. Up to now we have kept them supplied with a little general information. Lord Blenavon, who is a remarkably sensible young man, lent us his assistance. I tell you this quite frankly. I believe that it is best."
He was watching me furtively. I did my best to keep my features immovable.
"With Lord Blenavon's assistance," my father continued, "we did at first very well. Since his—er—departure we have not been so fortunate. I will be quite candid. We have not succeeded at all. Our friends pay generously, but they pay by results. As a consequence your stepmother and I are nearly penniless. This fact induces me to make you a special—a very special—offer."
My stepmother seemed about to speak. She checked herself, however.
"Go on," I said.
My father coughed. There was a bottle upon the table, and he helped himself from it.
"My nerves," he remarked, "are in a shocking state this morning. Can I offer you anything?"
I shook my head. My father poured out nearly a glass full of the raw spirit, diluted it with a little, a very little, water, and drank it off.