Like most young men who have got on in their calling, Christian Vellacott held his career in great respect. He felt that any sacrifice made for it carried its own reward. He thought that it levelled scruples and justified deceptions.
He knew this Vicomte d'Audierne by reputation; he wished to hear more of him; and so he feigned ignorance—listening.
“What has he written about?” inquired Hilda.
“To ask if he may come and see us. I suppose he means to come and stay.”
Vellacott looked what the French call “contraried.”
“When?” asked the girl.
“On Monday week.”
And then Mrs. Carew turned to her other letters. Vellacott took the budget addressed to him, and walked away to where an iron table and some chairs stood in the shade of a deodar.
In a few minutes he looked still more put out. He had learnt of the disturbances in Paris, and was reading a rather panic-stricken letter from Mr. Bodery. The truth was that there was no one in the office of the Beacon who knew anything whatever about French home politics but Christian Vellacott.
A continuance of these disturbances would necessarily assume political importance, and might even lead to a crisis. This meant an instant recall for Vellacott. In a crisis his presence in London or Paris was absolutely necessary to the Beacon.