“
Good-mornin’, George.”
“Good-morning, dad.”
“Enjoy your run to Hereford?”
“Immensely. Did you?”
“It was not so bad. Rather tiresome, you know, travelin’ alone, but on the return journey I fell in with a decent sort of Frenchman who helped to pass the time.”
“Monsieur Marigny, in fact?”
“Ah, you know him, of course. I had forgotten.”
“I have met him. He is not the kind of person I care to know.”
The Earl selected an egg, tapped it, and asked his son what he thought of the crops—did they want rain? The two were breakfasting alone—at the moment there was not even a man-servant in the room—but Lord Fairholme had long ago established the golden rule that controversial topics were taboo during meals. Medenham laughed outright at the sudden change of topic. He remembered that Dale was sent to bed in the Green Dragon Hotel at eight o’clock, and he had not the least doubt that his father’s ukase was really a dodge to secure an undisturbed dinner. But he was under no delusions because of this placid meeting in the breakfast-room. There was thunder in the air. Tomkinson had warned him of it overnight.