“Well, my lord, excuse me,” he said, “but you know what I mean.”
Medenham completed the sentence.
“So as to prevent me from marrying Miss Cynthia.”
“Exactly what Simmonds an’ me said, my lord.”
“He will not succeed, Dale.”
“I never thought he would. Once your lordship is set on a thing, well, that thing occurs.”
“Thank you. Good-night!”
Medenham did not feel equal to facing the men in the smoking-room again. He went out, walked up Oxford Street and across the park, and reached his room about midnight. Next day he devoted himself to work. In view of the new and strange circumstances that had arisen he believed confidently that Cynthia would reply to his letter by return of post, and there should be no chance of delay, because she meant to stay two days at Windermere, making that town the center of excursions through lakeland.
While the son was seeking forgetfulness in classifying a collection of moths and night flies caught during a week at La Turbie, the father found occupation in prosecuting diligent inquiries into the social and financial standing of Peter Vanrenen. As a result, the Earl visited Lady St. Maur, and, as a further result, Lady St. Maur wrote a very biting and sarcastic note to “My dear Millicent.” Moreover, she decided not to press her nephew to visit her at present.
Next morning, Medenham was up betimes. He heard the early postman’s knock, and Tomkinson in person brought the letters.