As he would hardly be likely to take himself off before she had answered his question, Amory did not reply at once. She sat down on the footstool and stretched her hands out to the asbestos log. Then, after a minute, and without looking up, she broke one of their tacitly accepted rules by asking a direct question.
“What were you and Edgar Strong discussing?” she asked.
He yawned again.—“Oh, the Bookshop advertisement—and advertisements generally. It begins to look as if we should have to be less exclusive about these things. Strong tells me that it’s unheard of for a paper to refuse any advertisement it can get.”
“I mean when you got out the atlas.”
“Oh—India, of course. The Indian policy. Strong isn’t altogether satisfied about Prang. He seems to think he might get us into trouble.”
“How? Why?” Amory said, her eyes reflectively on the purring gas-jets.
“Can’t make out. Some fancy of his. The policy hasn’t changed, and Prang hasn’t changed. I wonder whether Wilkinson’s right when he says Strong’s put his hand to the plough but is now ... ah! That reminds me!—Were you here when that preposterous fellow—what’s his name—Crabtree—rather let the cat out of the bag about Wilkinson?”
“You mean about another paper? No. But Walter said something about it.”
“Yes, by Jove! He seems to have it all cut-and-dried! Crabtree seems to think I knew all about it. Of course I did know that Wilkinson had a scheme, but I’d no idea he was jumping ahead at that rate. I don’t want two papers. One’s getting rather serious.”
Still without looking at her husband, Amory said, “How, serious?”