Carstairs had been sitting still, staring straight ahead; he arose and looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I must be going. I want to get out those figures——"
"Nonsense, my dear chap," Darwen took him by the arm. "Come on into the other room, and I'll play you a tune."
"What do you say, Mrs Darwen?" Carstairs looked at her quite seriously.
"Oh, you'll stay, of course."
So he stayed.
"You and the mater," Darwen remarked, as they made their way into the other room, "ought to get on as thick as thieves, you're both so very Saxon."
Carstairs laughed. "In the light of your recent little oration, I'm sure we're both highly flattered," he said.
On his way home late that night, Carstairs was very thoughtful. "So Darwen was right, there was a touch of the Dago in him; the subtle Italian diplomatist, crossed with the dashing English-French sportsman, a strange mixture." He pondered deeply.
Next morning on his way to the works, a policeman, an acquaintance made in the dark days of his shift engineering career, stopped him. "Have you heard the news, sir?"
"No. What news?"