“Oh no! you mustn’t,” broke in George Trenchard—“Must he, mother? He’s got to stop the night. Of course he has. We’ve got as much room as you like. Here, let me introduce you.”
Mr. Mark was led round. He was, most certainly, (as Aunt Betty remarked afterwards upstairs) very quiet and pleasant and easy about it all. He apologised again to Mrs. Trenchard, hadn’t meant to stop more than a moment, so struck by the coincidence, his father had always said first thing he must do in London....
Rocket was summoned—“Mr. Mark will stop here to-night.” “Certainly—of course—anything in the world—”
Grandfather was wheeled away, the ladies in the hall hoped that they would see Mr. Mark in the morning and Mr. Mark hoped that he would see them. Good-night—good-night....
“Come along now,” cried George Trenchard, taking his guest’s arm. “Come along and have a smoke and a drink and tell us what you’ve been doing all these years!... Why the last time I saw you!...”
Mrs. Trenchard, unmoved by this ripple upon the Trenchard waters, stopped for a moment before leaving the drawing-room and called Henry—
“Henry dear. Is this your book?” She held up the volume with the yellow Mudie’s label.
“Yes, Mother.”
“I hope it’s a nice book for you, dear.”
“A very nice book, Mother.”