"Come and dine," suggested Dick Davenant.
I told him of my own party, and lost no time in working the Cumberland days with his father for all they were worth. What happened to the Seraph I never discovered. As I hurried back to the Randolph for dinner, Robin met me with an apology in advance for the dull evening before me.
"'Fraid you'll have rather a rotten time," he opined. "I wish you had let me find you some old snag or other."
"I shall be all right, Robin," I said.
"There's sure to be bridge somewhere. Or look here, what about a roulette-board? Combine business with pleasure—what?"
"I shall be able to amuse myself," I assured him.
Our dinner that night was one of the gayest meals I have eaten; we were all expectant, excited, above our usual form—with the single exception of Philip. If I were a woman, I suppose I should notice these things; as it was I put his silent preoccupation down to overwork. When he approached Robin with other-world gentleness and suggested a stroll up St. Giles after dinner "just to keep me company, old boy," I ought to have suspected something; but it was not till the Seraph, smoking a lonely cigar, murmured something about "Consul videat ne respublica detrimentum capiat," that I saw my authority over Gladys was being threatened.
The girls had been despatched for their last mysterious finishing touches, and we had the hall of the Randolph to ourselves.
"What the deuce ought I to do, Seraph?" I asked.
"What can you do?"