"And now, my nephew—au revoir. We meet again at twelve for lunch."
He stooped and kissed her outstretched hand. The dreaded interview was over.
He found his way into the hall and sat down at a writing-table, determined to get his letter off to Cydonia's father before lunch.
"Dear Sir."
He wrote the words on a sheet edged with an inch of black. Then tore it up and started again.
"Suppose I must call him Mr. Cadell!" This done, he stared into space, searching for an opening phrase; faced with the problem of explaining the urgency of his trip abroad.
"If I start by saying my uncle is dead it opens the question of my inheritance—I shall have to explain about my family and it makes the letter long-winded. Besides, I don't want him to know anything about the title. I'd rather, as I said before, go in and win as Peter McTaggart."
He thought for a moment, then covered a page; read it through and crumpled it up.
"Too colloquial—oh, hang! What on earth am I to say?"
Like many men who talk easily, he could not put his thoughts on paper.