Cynthia had been watching him closely.
“I believe you do mean it,” she said at last, “and are not saying it just to comfort me.”
The car drew up before the broad double flight of steps that led to the great oak doors of Staveley, and Cynthia prepared to get out.
“But I would most awfully like to know,” she added over her shoulder, “what you’ve got up your funny old sleeve.”
With that she ran up the steps and disappeared into the house, leaving Fayre staring in front of him, a comic picture of dismay.
“Bless the women!” he ejaculated as he prepared to follow her.
He made for the library and entrenched himself firmly behind the Times; but he wasn’t to escape for long. Less than ten minutes later he heard Cynthia’s voice in the hall and then her quick, light step as she came into the room. He buried his nose deeper in the leading article.
There was a protesting creak from his chair as she settled herself comfortably on the arm and placed a slim white hand between his eyes and the print.
“I did play the game, didn’t I, Uncle Fayre?” she murmured softly. “I never asked a single question. Don’t you think I deserve a lump of sugar?”
“What do you want now?” he asked, trying in vain to speak gruffly. Cynthia in her wheedling moods was doubly dangerous.