Suddenly he shot a glance at Amory, and said abruptly, “I suppose you’ve talked over the Indian policy with Cosimo?”
It was nice and punctilious of him, the way he always dragged Cosimo in, and Amory liked it. She felt sure that the editor of the “Times,” calling on the Prime Minister’s wife, would not ignore the Prime Minister. But to-day she was a little abstracted—dull—she didn’t know exactly what; and so she replied, without moving, “Would you like him here? He’s busy with the ‘Life.’”
“Oh no, don’t trouble him then.”
There was a pause. Then, “I did talk to him about it. And to Mr. Prang,” Amory said.
“Oh. Hm. Quite so,” said Mr. Strong, looking at the toes of his brogues.
“Yes. Mr. Prang was here last night,” Amory continued, looking at the points of her own slippers.
“Yes.”
Again Mr. Strong’s chin was sunk into his red tie. He was rising and falling slowly on his toes. His eyes moved ruminatively sideways to the rug at Amory’s feet.
“Yes. Yes. I’ve been wondering——” he said thoughtfully.