“Quite right. We got cold and wet through in the evening; we sat up talking till the small hours; we got cold and wet again this morning—and here I am.”
“A converted sportsman,” his mother observed. “I wish you could convert your friend, Mr. Furley. There’s a perfectly terrible article of his in the National this month. I can’t understand a word of it, but it reads like sheer anarchy.”
“So long as the world exists,” Julian remarked, “there must be Socialists, and Furley is at least honest.”
“My dear Julian,” his mother protested, “how can a Socialist be honest! Their attitude with regard to the war, too, is simply disgraceful. I am sure that in any other country that man Fenn, for instance, would be shot.”
“What about your house party?” Julian enquired, with bland irrelevance.
“All arrived. I suppose they’ll be down directly. Mr. Hannaway Wells is here.”
“Good old Wells!” Julian murmured. “How does he look since he became a Cabinet Minister?”
“Portentous,” Lady Maltenby replied; with a smile. “He doesn’t look as though he would ever unbend. Then the Shervintons are here, and the Princess Torski—your friend Miss Abbeway’s aunt.”
“The Princess Torski?” Julian repeated. “Who on earth is she?”
“She was English,” his mother explained, “a cousin of the Abbeways. She married in Russia and is on her way now to France to meet her husband, who is in command of a Russian battalion there. She seems quite a pleasant person, but not in the least like her niece.”