CHAPTER XIII
In the end Gorman made up his mind to go to Salissa. I do not suppose that the King’s gift of the Order of the Pink Vulture had much to do with his decision. Nor do I think that he went out of pure kindness of heart, in order to give Konrad Karl and Madame Ypsilante eight weeks of unalloyed delight in Paris. I know that he never had the slightest intention of trying to persuade Donovan to part with the island, and—Gorman has not much conscience, but he has some—nothing would have induced him to suggest a marriage between Miss Daisy and the disreputable King. He went to Salissa because that island seemed in a fair way to become a very interesting place.
On the very evening of Gorman’s dinner with the King I happened to meet Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton at another, a much duller dinner party. Sir Bartholomew was not yet Secretary of State for Balkan Problems, but he was well known as an authority on the Near East, and was in constant unofficial touch with the Foreign Office. He is a big man in his way, and I was rather surprised when he buttonholed me after the ladies had left the room. I am not a big man in any way.
“Do you happen to know a man called Gorman?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “Michael Gorman. I’ve met him. In fact, I know him pretty well.”
“Nationalist M.P.?”
“Sits for Upper Offaly,” I said. “Can’t blame him for that. Four hundred a year is something these times.”