Moyne smiled feebly.
“I wish it was all well over,” he said. “I hope the Prime Minister won’t be disagreeable to—. It would have been better, much better, if she’d gone to Castle Affey.”
“You needn’t be a bit afraid of that,” I said.
This time I spoke with real assurance. No man living could be disagreeable to Lady Moyne, if she smiled at him. When she left Belfast she was so much in earnest and so anxious, that she would certainly smile her very best at the Prime Minister.
“I don’t know,” said Moyne. “He may hold her responsible to some extent. And she is, you know. That’s the worst of it, she is. We all are.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“Oh, but we are,” said Moyne. “I feel that. I wish to goodness we’d never—”
“What I mean is that the Prime Minister won’t hold her responsible. After all, Moyne, he’s a politician himself. He’ll understand.”
“But we said—we kept on saying—Babberly and all of us—”
Moyne was becoming morbid.