“Can’t,” said Mr. Chaveney. “Ordered my trap. My people are going to take me out to dinner. They won’t be denied.”
“England hath need of him,” said Wilbraham. “Come along, Gunner. My things are in the court. I’m due at the desk at seven.”
Mr. Chaveney—very young, very fair, and very flushed, with long and light eyelashes—was now at the piano. He swayed as he played.
“Do you like that?” he said, looking at Mrs. Germain, who was still pensive. “It’s ‘Carmen.’”
“Beg pardon,” said Lord Gunner. “It sounded like Chaveney.” The youth ran up a scale.
“Go and play rackets, Gunner, and leave me to my art. I’m going.”
“He’ll stay to dine—you see if he don’t,” was Lord Gunner’s passing shot. He was answered by a crashing chord.
Miss de Speyne, regarding the pianist’s back, said in a gentle voice, “He’s in the library. You’d better go to him for a minute.”
Mrs. Germain had the knack of making her eyes wide and round so that you got the full-orbed splendour of their brown light. “I expect he’s asleep. I’ll see him before dinner.” Her friend shook her head.
“He’s walking up and down. He’ll rest after you have been.”