There was, however, more than a suggestion of juvenility in his manner of greeting Lady Innisfail. He was as effusive as is consistent with the modern spirit of indifference to the claims of hostesses and all other persons.
He was not so effusive when he turned to Harold; but that was only to be expected, because Harold was his son.
“No, my boy,” said Lord Fotheringay, “I didn’t fancy that you would expect to see me here to-night—I feel surprised to find myself here. It seems like a dream to me—a charming dream-vista with Lady Innisfail at the end of the vista. Innisfail always ruins his chances of winning a game by attempting a screw back into the pocket. He leaves everything on. You’ll see what my game is now.”
He chalked his cue and bent over the table once more.
Harold watched him make the stroke. “You’ll see what my game is,” said Lord Fotheringay, as he settled himself down to a long break.
Harold questioned it greatly. His father’s games were rarely transparent.
“What on earth can have brought him?—oh, he takes one’s breath away,” whispered Lady Innisfail to Harold, with a pretty fair imitation of a smile lingering about some parts of her face.
Harold shook his head. There was not even the imitation of a smile about his face.
Lady Innisfail gave a laugh, and turned quickly to Miss Avon.
“My husband will be delighted to meet you, my dear,” said she. “He is certain to know your father.”