“One cannot suppose,” he said, in the full conviction that words will meet any emergency—“One cannot suppose that Von Holzen will act in direct opposition to the voice of the majority.”
“Von Holzen,” replied the major, “plays a doocid good game.”
After luncheon they walked across the Toornoifeld to the Hôtel des Indes, and there, in a small salon, found a number of gentlemen seated round a table. Mr. Wade was conspicuous by his absence. They had, indeed, left him in the hotel garden, sitting at the consumption of an excellent cigar.
“Join the jocund dance?” the major had inquired, with a jerk of the head towards the Hôtel des Indes. But Mr. Wade was going for a drive with Marguerite.
Tony Cornish was, however, seated at the table, and the major recognized two paper-makers whom he had seen before. One was an aggressive, red-headed man, of square shoulders and a dogged appearance, who had “radical” written all over him. The other was a mild-mannered person, with a thin, ash-colored moustache. The major nodded affably. He distinctly remembered offering to fight these two gentlemen either together or one after the other on the landing of the little malgamite office in Westminster. And there was a faint twinkle behind the major's eyeglass as he saluted them.
“Good morning, Thompson,” he said. “How do, MacHewlett?” For he never forgot a face or a name.
“A'hm thinking——” Mr. MacHewlett was observing, but his thoughts died a natural death at the sight of a real lord, and he rose and bowed. Mr. Thompson remained seated and made that posture as aggressive and obvious as possible. The remainder of the company were of varied nationality and appearance, while one, a Frenchman of keen dark eyes and a trim beard—seemed by tacit understanding to be the acknowledged leader. Even the pushing Mr. Thompson silently deferred to him by a gesture that served at once to introduce Lord Ferriby and invite the Frenchman to up and smite him.
Lord Ferriby took the seat that had been left vacant for him at the
head of the table. He looked around upon faces not too friendly.
“We were saying, my lord,” said the Frenchman, in perfect English and
with that graceful tact which belongs to France alone, “that we have
all been the victims of an unfortunate chain of misunderstandings.
Had the organizers of this great charity consulted a few paper-makers
before inaugurating the works at Scheveningen, much unpleasantness
might have been averted, many lives might, alas, have been spared.
But—well—such mundane persons as ourselves were probably unknown to
you and unthought-of; the milk is spilt, is it not so? Let us rather
think of the future.”
Lord Ferriby bowed graciously, and Mr. Thompson moved impatiently on his chair. The suave method had no attractions for him.
“A'hm thinking,” began Mr. MacHewlett, in his most plaintive voice, and commanded so sudden and universal an attention as to be obviously disconcerted, “his lordship'll need plainer speech than that,” he muttered hastily, and subsided, with an uneasy glance in the direction of that man of action, Major White.