It had been indeed an important day for Baltazar. The house near Moulsford, Lady Edna’s personal possession, a vast square, red-brick, late Georgian building, standing in grounds that reached down to the river, had been filled with anxiously chosen High and Mightinesses, among whom her husband, minister though he was, shone like an inferior satellite. It was the last move in the game on behalf of John Baltazar which she had played for many weeks.
“What are you asking that damned fellow for?” Edgar Donnithorpe had asked, looking at the list of guests.
“Because he amuses me.”
“He doesn’t amuse me,” snapped her husband.
He was a little thin man, with thin grey hair and a thin moustache and a thin voice. Up to a few months ago she had treated him with contemptuous tolerance. Now she had begun to dislike him exceedingly.
“If you don’t want to meet Mr. Baltazar,” she replied, “you can stay in London.”
They sparred in the unedifying manner of ill-assorted husband and wife.
“I’m sick of seeing this overbearing adventurer in my house,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself.”