It was broken by Bassishaw. Unable to solve the difficulty, he cut the knot. His hand came over my knee, and took the hand of Caroline that was hanging in limp appeal nearest him. She turned her face away, but allowed the hand to remain. It was all over, and I leaned back to commune with my thoughts, and to adjust my mind to the prospect of being once more a superfluity.
“I say, Butterfield, old chap,” Bassishaw whispered to me, “do you mind changing places? This is rather awkward, you know.”
“It is conspicuous,” I replied, “but commendably frank. I rather admire your way of doing these things, Bassishaw. But we can’t change now. You’ll have to wait your opportunity of giving me the slip in the foyer—I’ve no doubt you’ll attempt it.”
It would do them no harm to wait a while.
VIII
A VETERAN RECRUIT
Millicent Dixon’s uncle, Col. Elliott Coke, invalided from some remote Afghan frontier station whose name on the map was utterly out of proportion to the inconsiderableness of the place, was in London. I met him at the Bassishaws’ when Arthur, in tones of infinite respect, had pointed out to my notice a small, keen face, curried by Indian suns, with moustaches out of which both the colour and the moisture had been grilled years and years before.
“I say, Rollo,” Bassishaw had whispered, “do you know who that is? That’s Col. Coke.”
“It’s a good name,” I observed. “Who’s he?”
“Who’s he? I say, Rollo! Why, he’s the best authority on hill batteries and jungle skirmishes in India! Led an attack on some darned place or other in—I forget the date. V. C. Went through the Afghan war, you know—got about a hundred and fifty clasps.”
“Indeed?” I said. “Present me.”