Hearing the words he stood motionless before he had taken half-a-dozen steps into the hall.
Lady Innisfail also stopped at the same instant, and looked over her shoulder at Harold.
Through the silence there came the little click of the billiard balls.
The speaker gave the instinctive twist of the practised billiard player toward the pocket that he wished the ball to approach. Then he took a breath and straightened himself in a way that would have made any close observer aware of the fact that he was no longer a young man.
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.