“Not your political career, sir?”
There was a moment in which Chilcote hesitated, a moment in which the desire that had filled his mind for months rose to his lips and hung there; then the question, the incredulity in Blessington's face, chilled it and it fell back into silence.
“I—I didn't say that,” he murmured. “You young men jump to conclusions, Blessington.”
“Forgive me, sir. I never meant to imply retirement. Why, Rickshaw, Vale, Cressham, and the whole Wark crowd would be about your ears like flies if such a thing were even breathed—now more than ever, since these Persian rumors. By-the-way, is there anything real in this border business? The 'St. George's' came out rather strong last night.”
Chilcote had moved back to the table. His face was pale from his outburst and his fingers toyed restlessly with the open newspaper.
“I haven't seen the 'St. George's',” he said, hastily. “Lakely is always ready to shake the red rag where Russia is concerned; whether we are to enter the arena is another matter. But what about Craig, Burnage? I think you mentioned something of a contract.”
“Oh, don't worry about that, sir.” Blessington had caught the twitching at the corners of Chilcote's mouth, the nervous sharpness of his voice. “I can put Craig, Burnage off. If they have an answer by Thursday it will be time enough.” He began to collect his papers, but Chilcote stopped him.
“Wait,” he said, veering suddenly. “Wait. I'll see to it now. I'll feel more myself when I've done something. I'll come with you to the study.”
He walked hastily across the room; then, with his hand on the door, he paused.
“You go first, Blessington,” he said. “I'll—I'll follow you in ten minutes. I must glance through the newspapers first.”