“Those look to me personal,” he said. Mr. Germain, having adjusted his pince-nez, inspected the envelopes and put them unopened into his pocket. Toast-munching was resumed, and silence. Once or twice Mr. Germain looked at his watch, once compared it with the hall-clock, but made no other sign.
Wilbraham poured more tea, spread himself honeycomb on bread and butter, and went on with his letters. He broke the silence. “The Association has written again to know whether you have decided. They hope you will come forward. Sir Gregory has gone to Madeira. They say, he’s quite made up his mind.”
Mr. Germain blinked solemnly at space, without reply.
“And I’ve a note here from Mr. Jess—rather, from his secretary. There was a meeting at the Reform on Monday. Your name was mentioned. Mr. Jess hopes that he hasn’t been indiscreet. He referred to the possibility.”
Mr. Germain, without turning his head or ceasing to munch, asked here, Who was Mr. Jess’s private secretary.
“Duplessis,” said brisk Mr. Wilbraham, adding, as if to himself,
“Clever beggar.” After a pause Mr. Germain got up.
“I shall rest for a little, Wilbraham. We will consider these things before dinner. Meantime I will ask you to remember that they are between you and me. Strictly so.”
“Oh, of course! Quite understood,” the friendly young man nodded.
The master of the house had his hand on the library door when a step on the flags of the vestibule caused him to look quickly round. There was a moment during which he could have been observed to hold his breath in suspense. A tall and sumptuously fair lady, free-moving, deep-bosomed, robed in white—all her dresses robed her—came into the hall. She wore a broad-brimmed Tuscan hat, which set about her like a halo, and carried flowers. This was the Honourable Hertha de Speyne, the last of the Cantacutes.