The reason for Sir Harry Payne’s sneering remark was patent to Colonel Mellersh as soon as he opened the door, for from the Linnells’ rooms came the sweet harmonies of a couple of exquisitely-played violins, and for a few minutes the Colonel seemed to forget the trouble on hand, as he stood with his face softened, and one delicate hand waving to the rhythm of the old Italian music.
“Poor lad!” he said, as his face changed, and a look of pain crossed his brow. “And for her, too. Weak, foolish lad! He’s infatuated—as we all are at some time or other in our lives.”
He stood in his doorway, thoughtful, and with brow knit.
“That chattering pie will spread it all over the town. Clode will get to know, and then—well, we must take care.”
He crossed the hall, tapped lightly on the opposite door, and then entered.
“Bravo—bravo!” he cried, clapping his delicate white hands. “Admirable!”
“Ah, Mellersh, come and join us,” said the elder Linnell, raising his glasses on to his forehead. “Just in time for a trio.”
“No, no, not to-day. Impossible. My head is terrible this morning. Late hours—cards—strong coffee. I came to ask Dick here if he would be my companion for a six-mile walk to Shankley Wood.”
The elder Linnell looked from one to the other with a smile.
“Oh, I’m sure he will,” he said. “Eh, Dick?”