“Called me Shel—my God! If only I’d got that long-handled, old-fashioned one with the five prongs—!”
CHAPTER X
AFFAIRS OF STATE
Still feeling rather a puppet in the hands of Fate, Mr. Philip reached No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, about twenty minutes after the hour appointed. But as the great Proconsul really must be at the House of Lords by a quarter to four, luncheon had already begun.
“I notice, Philip,” said S. of P., who had arranged with the Woolsack to address his fellow peers in support of the Daylight Saving Bill that afternoon, “that you hardly realize the importance of the part played by time in the lives of us all. I said half-past one distinctly in my note.”
The unfortunate young man apologized very humbly and politely to the great Proconsul.
Considering what an Odyssey his life had been that morning, the young fellow made a very decent luncheon. Just the wing of a woodcock, and a bit off the breast, a few slices of York ham, a jam puff or so, a bite of cheese and an imperial pint of bitter ale out of a presentation silver tankard bearing the arms of Ch: Ch. Blind instinct seemed to tell the young man that he must keep up his strength, since there was a dull sensation behind the chocolate waistcoat, knitted for him by his mother, which clearly suggested that trouble was looming in the middle distance. Port wine, Green Chartreuse, a big cigar, and black coffee all played their manly parts. Yes, with the help of the gods he might be able to keep up his end all right; although he was by no means sure that he liked that concentrated, governing-classes look in the eye of the good old Mater.
The after-luncheon conference in the library was most impressive. The Governing Classes were distinctly fortissimo; and in spite of his ample sustenance, Mr. Philip felt rather meager in the presence of this deep reverence for the established order, and so much of that which is best in the public and private life of these islands.
Lord Warlock, subject to certain contingencies, was prepared to accept other contingencies in respect of Adela. The First Baron was admirably clear and statesmanlike in his aperçu of the most interesting position which had been evolved by the higher diplomacy.
“Sometime in October, at dear Saint George’s,” thought the good old Mater.
The heir to the barony was silent, dismal, and undone. He had hesitated about a second Green Chartreuse; he wished now that he had obeyed his inward monitor. There was a sense of vacuum behind the knitted chocolate waistcoat that was really the devil.