Ericson smiled, half sadly. He was thinking that there was even more of an official fossilisation of Sir Rupert's earlier nature than Sir Rupert himself had suspected or described. Hamilton assumed that it was all the natural sort of thing—that everybody in office became like that in time. Sarrasin again told himself that at no appeal less strong than that of a personal and imploring request from her gracious Majesty herself would he ever consent to become a Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
Sir Rupert had come to have a very strong feeling of friendship and even of affection for the Dictator. He thought him far too good a man to be thrown away on a pitiful South American Republic. But of late he accepted the situation. He understood—at all events, he recognised—the almost fanatical Quixotism that was at the base of Ericson's character, and he admired it and was also provoked by it, for it made him see that remonstrance was in vain.
Sir Rupert felt himself disappointed, although only in a vague sort of way. Half-unconsciously he had lately been forming a wish for the future of his daughter, and now he was dimly conscious that that wish was not to be realised. He had been thinking that Helena was much drawn towards the Dictator, and he did not see where he could have found a more suitable husband. Ericson did not come of a great family, to be sure, but Sir Rupert saw more and more every day that the old-fashioned social distinctions were not merely crumbling but positively breaking down, and he knew that any of the duchesses with whom he was acquainted would gladly encourage her daughter to marry a millionaire from Oil City, Pennsylvania. He had seen and he saw that Ericson was made welcome into the best society of London, and, what with his fame and Helena's money, he thought they might have a pleasant way in life together. Now that dream had come to an end. Ericson, of course, would naturally desire to recover his position in South America; but even if he were to succeed he could hardly expect Helena to settle down to a life in an obscure and f[oe]tid South American town. Sir Rupert took this for granted. He did not argue it out. It came to his eyes as a certain, unarguable fact. He knew that his daughter was unconventional, but he construed that only as being unconventional within conventional limits. Some of her ways might be unconventional; he did not believe it possible that her life could be. It did not even occur to him to ask himself whether, if Helena really wished to go to South America and settle there, he could be expected to give his consent to such a project.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PANGS OF THE SUPPRESSED MESSAGE
'By Jove, I thought they would never go!' Hamilton said to Captain Sarrasin as they moved towards their bedrooms.
'So did I,' Sarrasin declared with a sigh of relief. 'They' whose absence was so much desired were Sir Rupert Langley and the Dictator.
'Come into my room,' Hamilton said in a low tone. They entered Hamilton's room, speaking quietly, as if they were burglars. Sarrasin was lodged on the same corridor a little farther off. The soft electric light was sending out its pale amber radiance on the corridor and in the bedroom. Hamilton closed his door.
'Please take a seat, Sarrasin,' he said with elaborate politeness; and Sarrasin obeyed him and sat down in a luxurious armchair, and then Hamilton sat down too. This apparently was pure ceremonial, and the ceremonial was over, for in a moment they both rose to their feet. They had something to talk about that passed ceremonial.