“In a moment. You go down and open the champagne. I’ll follow you. I—I want to say a few words to a friend on board.”
“No tricks now, Buel. You’re not going to try to dodge them?”
“I’m a man of my word, Mr. Brant. Don’t be afraid.”
“And now,” said the other, putting his hands on the young man’s shoulders, “you’ll be kind to them. Don’t put on too much side, you know. You’ll forgive me for mentioning this, but sometimes your countrymen do the high and mighty act a little too much. It doesn’t pay.”
“I’ll do my best. But I haven’t the slightest idea what to say. In fact, I’ve nothing to say.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Don’t you worry. Just have a talk with them, that’s all they want. You’ll be paralysed when the interviews come out to-morrow; but you’ll get over that.”
“You’re sure the book is a success in its own merits, and not through any newspaper puffing or that sort of thing, you know?”
“Why, certainly. Of course our firm pushed it. We’re not the people to go to sleep over a thing. It might not have done quite so well with any other house; but I told you in London I thought it was bound to go. The pushing was quite legitimate.”
“In that case I shall be down to see the reporters in a very few minutes.” Although Buel kept up his end of the conversation with Brant, his mind was not on it. Miss Jessop and her father were walking near them; snatches of their talk came to him, and his attention wandered in spite of himself. The Wall Street man seemed to be trying to reassure his daughter, and impart to her some of the enthusiasm he himself felt. He patted her affectionately on the shoulder now and then, and she walked with springy step very close to his side.
“It’s all right, Carrie,” he said, “and as safe as the bank.”