Cantelupe's face melts into an expression of mild amazement.
Cantelupe. Your asking such a question shows that you would not understand my answer to it.
Farrant. [Leaving the fellow to his subtleties.] Well, what about the maid?
Wedgecroft. She may suspect facts but not names, I think. Why should they question her on such a point if O'Connell says nothing?
Horsham. He's really very late. I told ... [He stops.] Charles, I've forgotten that man's name again.
Cantelupe. Edmunds, you said it was.
Horsham. Edmunds. Everybody's down at Lympne ... I've been left with a new man here and I don't know his name. [He is very pathetic.] I told him to put O'Connell in the library there. I thought that either Farrant or I might perhaps see him first and—
At this moment Edmunds comes in, and, with that air of discreet tact which he considers befits the establishment of a Prime Minister, announces, "Mr. O'Connell, my lord." As O'Connell follows him, Horsham can only try not to look too disconcerted. O'Connell, in his tightly buttoned frock coat, with his shaven face and close-cropped iron grey hair, might be mistaken for a Catholic priest; except that he has not also acquired the easy cheerfulness which professional familiarity with the mysteries of that religion seems to give. For the moment, at least, his features are so impassive that they may tell either of the deepest grief or the purest indifference; or it may be, merely of reticence on entering a stranger's room. He only bows towards Horsham's half-proffered hand. With instinctive respect for the situation of this tragically made widower the men have risen and stand in various uneasy attitudes.
Horsham. Oh ... how do you do? Let me see ... do you know my cousin Charles Cantelupe? Yes ... we were expecting Russell Blackborough. Sir Henry Percival is ill. Do sit down.
O'Connell takes the nearest chair and gradually the others settle themselves; Farrant seeking an obscure corner. But there follows an uncomfortable silence, which O'Connell at last breaks.