Lord Ottery stared at him vaguely, as though he were a long way off. He always put on that look when asked for anything.
“Eh? Put you in the way of anything? Why don’t you join the Black-and-Tans? Knock hell out of those Irish blackguards!”
Bertram laughed, awkwardly.
“I’m sick of war. Besides, it doesn’t mean much pay. Not enough to help Joyce with her house in Holland Street. I want to keep my end up.”
Lord Ottery halted at the entrance to the House of Lords, touching his old hat to the policeman at the gate who saluted smartly.
“Why not go into business?” he said, as though “Business” were an open gate, easy to enter. “People are doing it now, I’m told.”
He nodded to Bertram and then ambled into the courtyard of the Palace of Westminster.
“A social pull!” thought Bertram. “The old ruffian wouldn’t lift a little finger for me!”
IX
It had been a regret to Bertram—almost a distress—that Luke Christy had not been in London lately, and he was glad to see his signature under some article in “The New World,” showing that he was back again.