"Tell me some more about your little adventure in Fifth Avenue?" she begged.
He smiled grimly.
"You wouldn't believe me," he reminded her, "but it really was one of Fischer's little jokes. It very nearly came off, too. As a matter of fact," he went on, "Fischer isn't really clever. He is too obstinate, too convinced in his own mind that things must go the way he wants them to, that Fate is the servant of his will. It's a sort of national trait, you know, very much like the way we English bury our heads in the sand when we hear unpleasant truths. The last thing Fischer wants is advertisement, and yet he goes to some of his Fourteenth Street friends and unearths a popular desperado to get rid of me. The fellow happens most unexpectedly to fail, and now Fischer has to face a good many awkward questions and a good deal of notoriety. No, I don't think Fischer is really clever."
Pamela sighed.
"In that case, I suppose I shall have to say 'No' to him," she decided.
"After waiting all this time, I couldn't bear to be married to a fool."
"You won't be," he assured her cheerfully.
"More British arrogance," she murmured. "Now see what's going to happen to us!"
A tall, elderly man, with smooth white hair plastered over his forehead, very precisely dressed, and with a gait so careful as to be almost mincing, was approaching their table. Pamela held out her hands.
"My dear uncle!" she exclaimed. "And I thought that you and aunt never dined at restaurants!"
Mr. Hastings stood with his fingers resting lightly upon the table. He glanced at Lutchester without apparent recognition.