The courtesy, the old-world spirit of dignity, were very charming, and Michael felt a warm glow toward this fine old man who brought to this modern atmosphere the love and the fragrance of a past age.
“I should like to shoot a scene before we lose the light, Mr. Longvale,” said Knebworth, “so, if you don’t mind the meal being a scrambling one, I can give the company a quarter of an hour.” He looked round. “Where is Foss?” he asked. “I want to change a scene.”
“Mr. Foss said he was walking from Griff Towers,” said one of the company. “He stopped behind to speak to Sir Gregory.”
Jack Knebworth cursed his dilatory scenario man with vigour and originality.
“I hope he hasn’t stopped to borrow money,” he said savagely. “That fellow’s going to ruin my credit if I’m not careful.”
He had overcome his objection to his new extra; possibly he felt that there was nobody else in the party whom he could take into his confidence without hurt to discipline.
“Is he that way inclined?”
“He’s always short of money and always trying to make it by some fool trick which leaves him shorter than he was before. When a man gets that kind of bug in his head he’s only a block away from prison. Are you going to stay the night? I don’t think you’ll be able to sleep here,” he said, changing the subject, “but I suppose you’ll be going back to London?”
“Not to-night,” said Michael quickly. “Don’t worry about me. I particularly do not wish to give you any trouble.”
“Come and meet the old man,” said Knebworth under his breath. “He’s a queer old devil with the heart of a child.”