On one of these November days he invited a friend and Breton to luncheon together.
Christopher's geniality and the supreme importance of the war over everything else helped amiability. Christopher's little house in Harley Street showed, beyond its consulting-room, a cheerful Philistine appreciation of comfort and love. There was old silver, there were old prints, sofas, soft carpets, book-cases, whose glass coverings were more important than their contents. Also a luncheon that was the most artistic thing that the house contained, save only the wine.
At the side of the round gleaming table Christopher sat smiling, and soon Breton told the friend about India and the friend told Breton about Africa.
Meanwhile Christopher watched Breton. He knew Breton very well and, in the old days, he would have said that that nervous excitement that the man sometimes betrayed meant that he was on the edge of some most foolish action.
He knew that light in the eyes, that excited voice, that restlessness—these things had meant that Breton's self-control was about to break.
To-day there were all these signs, and Christopher knew that after luncheon Breton would escape him.
Breton did escape him, went off somewhere in a hurry; no, Christopher could not drive him—he was going in the opposite direction.
Whilst Christopher drove, first down to Eaton Square, then back to 104 Portland Place, he was wondering about Breton....