“By the way, Martin,” said his father as the two walked to the farm. “Mrs. Saumarez is German by birth. Have you ever heard anything about her family?”
Martin had a good memory.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “She is a baroness—the Baroness Irma von Edelstein.”
The colonel was surprised at this glib answer.
“Who told you?” he inquired.
“Angèle, sir. But Mrs. Saumarez did not wish people to use her title. She was vexed with Angèle for even mentioning it.”
Mrs. Saumarez sent her car to bring Colonel Grant and his son to the Hall. She was slightly ruffled when Fritz told her that they had gone already, Mr. Beckett-Smythe having collected his guests from both the inn and the vicarage.
She might have been positively indignant if she had overheard Grant’s comments to the Admiralty official while the two strolled on the lawn before dinner.
“A couple of Prussian officers, if ever I saw the genuine article,” said the colonel. “Real junkers—smart-looking fellows, too. Mrs. Saumarez is the widow of a British officer—a fine chap, but poor as a church mouse—and she belongs to a wealthy German family. Verbum sap.”
“Nuff said,” grinned the sailor. “But what is one to do? No sooner is this outfit erected but it’ll be added to the display of local picture postcards, and the next German bigwig who visits this part of the country will be invited to amuse himself by ringing up Bremen.”