“So he is, Fratten, so he is, of course,” interjected Hessel. “You said yourself that you both lost your tempers—one says all sorts of things that one doesn’t mean when one loses one’s temper—then one’s sorry for them and probably one’s too stupid or sensitive to say so. Ryland’s all right really, I’m sure he is—a young ass about women, of course, but his heart’s all right.”
Fratten sighed. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “My God, what a heavenly evening—what a view!”
The two men had reached the top of the broad flight of steps leading from Waterloo Place down into the Mall. Above their heads towered the tall column from which the soldier-prince gazed sadly out over the London that had forgotten him. Daylight had gone, but the lamps revealed the delicate outline of the trees in the Green Park, their few remaining leaves gleaming a golden-brown wherever the light caught them. In the background it was just possible to get a glimpse of the delicate white beauty of the Horse Guards building, its clock-tower illuminated by hidden lights; beyond, on the right the sombre mass of the Foreign Office loomed up against the purple sky. The soft evening fog mellowed the whole scene to one of real beauty.
Fratten stood for a moment drinking it in; his companion waited with him, but seemed to have little eye for his surroundings. He had lighted a cigar and gave some attention to the way in which it was burning.
“Have you ever thought,” he asked as they moved on, “of getting Ryland to take up the stage professionally—either as an actor or producer? He has considerable talent, I believe. It seems to me that real work of any kind, however . . . hold up!”
They had got about half-way down the triple flight of steps, when a man, evidently in a great hurry, running down the steps from behind them, stumbled and fell against Sir Garth, catching hold of his arm to recover his own balance. Fratten did not fall, though he might have done so had Hessel not been on his other side to steady him.
“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered the intruder. “I’m in a great hurry; I hope I haven’t hurt you?”
The speaker was a well-built man of rather more than average height, without being tall. He appeared to be somewhere in the thirties and wore a dark moustache.
“Are you all right, Fratten; are you all right?” asked Hessel, anxiously looking in his companion’s face. Sir Garth had closed his eyes for a minute, and in the dim light he appeared to be rather white, but he soon pulled himself together and smiled at his companion.
“Quite all right, Leo,” he said.