“How very interesting,” said Mrs. Bishop, with evidently no comprehension and less interest.
Gerald Bishop cast an ironically amused glance across at Orde. The boy looked up at him quickly, the sullenness for a moment gone from his face.
Carroll Bishop appeared quite unconscious of an atmosphere which seemed to Orde strained, but sank into her place at the table and unfolded her napkin. The silent butler drew forward a chair for Orde, and stood looking impassively in Mrs. Bishop's direction.
“You will have some breakfast with us?” she inquired. “No? A cup of coffee, at least?”
She began to manipulate the coffee pot, without paying the slightest attention to Orde's disclaimer. The general puffed out his cheeks, and coughed a bit in embarrassment.
“A good cup of coffee is never amiss to an old campaigner,” he said to Orde. “It's as good as a full meal in a pinch. I remember when I was a major in the Eleventh, down near the City of Mexico, in '48, the time Hardy's command was so nearly wiped out by that viaduct—” He half turned toward Orde, his face lighting up, his fingers reaching for the fork with which, after the custom of old soldiers, to trace the chart of his reminiscences.
Mrs. Bishop rattled her cup and saucer with an uncontrollably nervous jerk of her slender body. For some moments she had awaited a chance to get the general's attention. “Spare us, father,” she said brusquely. “Will you have another cup of coffee?”
The old gentleman, arrested in mid-career, swallowed, looked a trifle bewildered, but subsided meekly.
“No, thank you, my dear,” said he, and went furiously at his breakfast.
Orde, overwhelmed by embarrassment, discovered that none of the others had paid the incident the slightest attention. Only on the lips of Gerald Bishop he surprised a fine, detached smile.