“The terrace, by all means,” her ladyship assented, rising from her place. “What a wonderful man you are, Mr. Fentolin, with your wireless telegraphy, and your telegraph office in the house, and telephones. Does it really amuse you to be so modern?”
“To a certain extent, yes,” Mr. Fentolin sighed, as he guided his chair along the hall. “When my misfortune first came, I used to speculate a good deal upon the Stock Exchange. That was really the reason I went in for all these modern appliances.”
“And now?” she asked. “What use do you make of them now?”
Mr. Fentolin smiled quietly. He looked out sea-ward, beyond the sky-line, from whence had come to him, through the clouds, that tangle of messages.
“I like to feel,” he said, “that the turning wheel of life is not altogether out of earshot. I like to dabble just a little in the knowledge of these things.”
Lord Saxthorpe came strolling up to them.
“You won’t forget to telephone about this guest of yours?” he asked fussily.
“It is already done,” Mr. Fentolin assured him. “My dear sister, why so silent?”
Mrs. Fentolin turned slowly towards him. She, too, had been standing with her eyes fixed upon the distant sea-line. Her face seemed suddenly to have aged, her forced vivacity to have departed. Her little Pomeranian rubbed against her feet in vain. Yet at the sound of Mr. Fentolin’s voice, she seemed to come back to herself as though by magic.
“I was looking where you were looking,” she declared lightly, “just trying to see a little way beyond. So silly, isn’t it? Chow-Chow, you bad little dog, come and you shall have your dinner.”