“Then you are of opinion, my dear White, that one cannot well refuse to meet these—er—persons?”
“Not,” replied Major White to Lord Ferriby, whose hand rested on his stout arm as they walked with dignity in the shade of the trees that border the Vyver—that quaint old fish-pond of The Hague—“not without running the risk of being called a d——d swindler.”
For the major was a lamentably plain-spoken man, who said but little, and said that little strong. Lord Ferriby's affectionate grasp of the soldier's arm relaxed imperceptibly. One must, he reflected, be prepared to meet unpleasantness in the good cause of charity—but there are words hardly applicable to the peerage, and Major White had made use of one of these.
“Public opinion,” observed the major, after some minutes of deep thought, “is a difficult thing to deal with—'cos you cannot thump the public.”
“It is notably hard,” said his lordship, firing off one of his pet platform platitudes, “to induce the public to form a correct estimate, or what one takes to be a correct estimate.”
“Especially of one's self,” added the major, looking across the water towards the Binnenhof in his vacant way.
Then they turned and walked back again beneath the heavy shade of the trees. The conversation, and indeed this dignified promenade on the Vyverberg, had been brought about by a letter which his lordship had received that same morning inviting him to attend a meeting of paper-makers and others interested in the malgamite trade to consider the position of the malgamite charity, and the advisability of taking legal proceedings to close the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. The meeting was to be held at the Hôtel des Indes, at three in the afternoon, and the conveners hinted pretty plainly that the proceedings would be of a decisive nature. The letter left Lord Ferriby with a vague feeling of discomfort. His position was somewhat isolated. A coldness had for some time been in existence between himself and his nephew, Tony Cornish. Of Mr. Wade, Lord Ferriby was slightly distrustful.
“These commercial men,” he often said, “are apt to hold such narrow views.”
And, indeed, to steer a straight course through life, one must not look to one side or the other.
There remained Major White, of whom Lord Ferriby had thought more highly since Fortune had called this plain soldier to take a seat among the gods of the British public. For no man is proof against the satisfaction of being able to call a celebrated person by his Christian name. The major had long admired Joan, in his stupid way from, as one might say, the other side of the room. But neither Lord nor Lady Ferriby had encouraged this silent suit. Joan was theoretically one of those of whom it is said that “she might marry anybody,” and who, as the keen observer may see for himself, often finishes by failing to marry at all. She was pretty and popular, and had, moreover, the entrée to the best houses. White had been useful to Lord Ferriby ever since the inauguration of the Malgamite scheme. He was not uncomfortably clever, like Tony Cornish. He was an excellent buffer at jarring periods. Since the arrival of Joan and her father at The Hague, the major had been almost a necessity in their daily life, and now, quite suddenly, Lord Ferriby found that this was the only person to whom he could turn for advice or support.