“That sounds theatrical—a sarcastic line out of some comedy of manners. If so, you shall have a wider stage than my boudoir. We lunch at one o’clock. It is 12.45 now, and Rosamund is always punctual.”
Warden, though raging at the dilemma, made the best of it.
“How long has Mrs. Laing been a widow?” he said.
“Nearly a year. Evidently your bush campaign shut out the usual sources of intelligence.”
He glanced at his watch.
“I really must catch the three o’clock train to Cowes,” he explained. “I am on Government service, and I suppose it would be quite impossible to arrange everything in a couple of hours. I am unacquainted with the formalities, but even a special license demands—“
“How unkind! Arthur, what has happened to you? How you are changed!”
“Never changed where you are concerned, Lady Hilbury!” he cried, sentiment for once gaining the upper hand—“you, to whom I owe so much! That, indeed, would be the wintry wind of ingratitude. Now, let me make amends. My behavior shall be discreet—my decorous sympathy worthy of a High Church curate. I was staggered for a few seconds, I admit, but the effects of the blow have passed, and my best excuse is that other things are perplexing me. I have no secrets from you, you know, so let me tell you why I am here.”
Sure of an interested listener in the wife of an ex–ruler of the great Niger territory, Warden plunged into an account of recent events. It was not necessary to mention Evelyn Dane in order to hold her attention. The first reference to Figuero and the Oku chiefs attained that end. No mean diplomatist herself, Lady Hilbury understood much that would perforce be hidden from all save those acquainted with West Africa.
“You will permit me to tell Charles?” came the eager question when he had finished.