"I had no idea you could get away," he said, "or I would have asked you in London."
Silvester said that he had no idea of it either; an American had come over from Yonkers and was taking his services for a fortnight. Harry admitted that for his part he could always get away, which, as Joe Burrall remarked, was an advantage as useful in debt as in matrimony.
This was a sunny day, an ideal day of southern winter, and they all took tea beneath the awning of the promenade deck. With Harry, Gabrielle was a little constrained and uneasy. She was glad to have him there, and yet felt that in some way his presence was a douche upon her schemes. He spoke of the little world of outer London, not of the wider horizon to which she looked. She had built a tower of her imagination which Harry Lassett would never climb. Indeed, he would have derided it as he had done her American friendship. With her father it was different. She had a long talk with him in his cabin before dinner and she learned again how much importance he had attached to her diplomatic success with John Faber.
"It would send me to Yonkers with better credentials than any Englishman ever carried across the seas," he said. "Think of it—John Faber with us! The man who has done more than anyone alive to make war possible in our time."
"You will never get him, father. It would be a great wrong against the truth if he came in."
"Why should it be wrong, Gabrielle?"
"For many reasons. He believes that all our dreams are sentimental moonshine; he never could be in earnest—how should he be when he does not believe?"
"Is it not possible to put our view so convincingly that he must believe?"
"Are we convinced ourselves? Is it very real to us?"
"It is very real to me. I think it must be to every man of culture."