“She is not a German,” he pointed out. “On the contrary, like a great many other Hungarians, I think she rather dislikes Germany and Germans. Her only concern is the personal question between us. She considers that every moment of the rest of my life should be devoted to her.”
“Perhaps it is as well,” Seaman remarked, “that you have arranged to go down to-morrow to Dominey. I will think out a scheme. Something must be done to pacify her.”
The lights were being put out. The two men rose a little unwillingly. Dominey felt singularly indisposed for sleep, but anxious at the same time to get rid of his companion. They strolled into the darkened hall of the hotel together.
“I will deal with the matter for you as well as I can,” Seaman promised. “To my mind, your greatest difficulty will be encountered to-morrow. You know what you have to deal with down at Dominey.”
Dominey's face was very set and grave.
“I am prepared,” he said.
Seaman still hesitated.
“Do you remember,” he asked, “that when we talked over your plans at Cape Town, you showed me a picture of—of Lady Dominey?”
“I remember.”
“May I have one more look at it?”