“Your society is always delightful, Usk, but sometimes it is slightly wearing,” said Mansfield, who had endured a good deal at the hands of his future brother-in-law during the last three days.
“Ah, you lazy beggar, I know now why you cried off going to Jerusalem with the poor old Chevalier! It’s perfectly sickening to see Phil demoralising you with her attentions when she won’t even give her only and frozen brother a cup of tea.”
“Sit still, Phil. I will pour out the tea,” said Lady Caerleon, with a loving pat on her daughter’s shoulder. In Philippa’s love-story her mother renewed her own youth, and in her overflowing happiness forgot to curb the little caressing ways which she had spent her married life in trying to repress as un-English.
“I wonder we haven’t had a telegram from the Chevalier, or, at any rate, from Hicks,” said Mansfield, jumping up to pour some more water into the teapot for Lady Caerleon. “They both promised to let us know how the transfer of power went off.”
“It’s a curious thing,” said Lord Caerleon; “but I met Monckton just now, and he tells me that no telegrams have come from Jerusalem to-day or yesterday, and no letters to-day. They hear that there has been a heavy snowfall in the south, and the Jerusalem trains have not arrived at Jaffa, so the post may be interrupted; but it seems queer that the city should be altogether isolated.”
“I hope poor old Goldberg hasn’t got snowed up on his journey,” laughed Usk. “Hicks has a pretty fair idea of making himself comfortable; but the Chevalier doesn’t know the ropes as he does. Besides, it must be soothing to be able to turn an honest penny out of one’s misfortunes by writing a column or two about them.”
“Perhaps the Roumis have refused to budge, after all,” suggested Mr Judson. “They are quite capable of holding on in spite of their promises, and the provisional government have no means of making them turn out.”
“That would be a deadlock, indeed,” said Lord Caerleon. “We must hope——”
“Why, here’s the Chevalier himself!” cried Usk, and all eyes were turned to the doorway, where the financier stood like a man in a dream, travel-stained and bent, with disordered garments.
“My dear Chevalier!” said Lord Caerleon, advancing and taking him by the arm. “Come and sit down; you are ill—frozen, perhaps.”