All this Demaine was told meanwhile that evening in the Prime Minister’s room.
His interview with Sorrel had been exceedingly satisfactory, and never in his life, not in the moments when he could spend most of his father-in-law’s money, had Demaine experienced so complete a respect and so eager a service. He felt himself already Warden, and what was better, he felt himself perfectly capable of the Wardenship. His mood rose and rose. He forgot Sudie; he had not even told her when he would be home. He shook his cousin’s hand as warmly as might a provincial, and went out by the entry under Big Ben, to calm down the exuberance of his joy with breaths of the fresh night air along the Embankment. It was nearly twelve o’clock.
So ended for George Mulross Demaine that Monday, June 1st, 1915.
CHAPTER IX
WHEN Sir Charles Repton woke upon the Tuesday morning he felt better than he had felt at any moment since the loss of his youth. There seemed something easy in the air about him, and within his mind a lack of business and friction which he did not account for at the time, but which perhaps in a vague manner he may have ascribed to the purity of the air and the beauty of the day.
The sun was streaming into his windows from over the Park. It was already warm, and as he dressed and shaved himself he allowed his thoughts to wander with an unaccustomed freedom over the simple things of life. He noted the colour of the trees; he was glad to see the happiness of the passers-by in the streets below; he felt an unaccountable sympathy with the human race, and he was even touched with contempt as he gazed at the long procession of wealthy houses which marked the line of Park Lane.
At breakfast he ate heartily, though he was alone; he looked at the small batch of letters which awaited him, and when he opened his newspaper he positively laughed at the opinions expressed in the leading article. He nearly broke into another laugh as he read the news from America, and then—with a gesture which horrified the two solemn servants who had watched the unaccountable change in their master’s manner, he tore the paper rapidly into four pieces and threw it on the floor. Having done this he jumped up gaily, nodded to the menials, said “You didn’t expect that,” walked briskly out, took his hat and coat and with no conscious purpose but as habit moved him jumped into a motor-bus going East.
The conductor, who had a respect for Sir Charles Repton’s clothes, and especially for his spats, and who seemed to recognise his face, asked him gently how much he desired to spend upon a ticket: to which he answered in a breezy manner, “Penny of course. Never pay more than a penny; then if the beastly thing breaks down you’re not out of pocket ... ’sides which,” he went on as though talking to himself, “if they forget about you you can have tuppence-worth or thruppence-worth for the same money!” And he chuckled.