“Has she been to see you within the past few days? asked Edmund.
“You understand women—and their motives,” said Harold. “Yes, Miss Craven was here. By the way, talking of motives, I have often wondered why you suggested to my sister that Miss Avon would make an agreeable addition to the party at Abbeylands.”
Not for a second did Edmund Airey change colour—not for a second did his eyes fall before the searching glance of his friend.
“The fact was,” said he—and he smiled as he spoke—“I was under the impression that your father—ah, well, if he hadn’t that mechanical rectitude of movement which appertains chiefly to the walking doll and other automata, he had still many good points. He told me upon one occasion that it was his intention to marry Miss Avon. I was amused.”
“And you wanted to be amused again? I see. I think that I, too, am beginning to understand something of men—and their motives,” remarked Harold.
“If you make any progress in that direction, you might try and fathom the object of the Opposition in getting up this agitation about Siberia. They are going to arouse the country by descriptions of the horrors of exile in Siberia. They want to make the Government responsible for what goes on there. And the worst of it is that they’ll do it, too. Do you remember Bulgaria?”
“Perfectly. The country is a fool. The Government will need a strong programme to counteract the effects of the Siberian platform.”
“I’m trying to think out something at the present moment. Well, good-bye. Don’t fail to let me know if I can do anything for you.”
He had been gone some time before Harold smiled—not the smile of a man who has been amused at something that has come under his notice, but the sad smile of a man who has found that his sagacity has not been at fault when he has thought the worst about one of his friends.
There are times when a certain imperturbability of demeanour on the part of a man who has been asked a sudden searching question, conveys as much to the questioner as his complete collapse would do. The perfect composure with which Edmund had replied to his sudden question regarding his motive in suggesting to Mrs. Lampson—with infinite tact—that Beatrice Avon might be invited to Abbeylands, told Harold all that he had an interest to know.