“All right. If you’ll tell me how many are coming, I’ll see to it.”
“No, please don’t. Please don’t worry your head about it.” He made a step forward and held up his thin hand in a deprecatory sort of way. “I’ll fix it up. I don’t want it to be the slightest bit of a concern to you. Thanks so much.”
He hurried out. Lady Edna frowned at her half-written letter. A devious man, Edgar. What was in the wind? The cook the next day, however, submitted to her a menu which, with a housewifely modification or so, she passed, and thought no more of the material banquet.
During the week the hint of a rumour reached her, when, at a public meeting, she ran up against the Rt. Hon. Sir Berkeley Prynne, a Member of the Government who had been hostile to her husband for many years and had only given the hatchet superficial burial during the party truce.
“I suppose you know a lot of us are quaking in our shoes?” he said, half banteringly.
“I don’t,” she said. “But I’ve no doubt it’s good for you. What’s the matter?”
“Signs of underground rumblings. Your quick ears have detected nothing?”
“No. Really. Honour bright. Do tell me.”
He shook his head and laughed. “It’ll be a wash-out,” said he, moving away.
Gibe or warning, Sir Berkeley’s words were not devoid of significance. They were aimed at her husband. Underground rumblings meant intrigue. She had long suspected Edgar of half-hearted support of the Government; but passionate devotion to anything was so foreign to his crafty, opportunist nature, that she had not greatly troubled her mind about his loyalty. Here, however, was cause for deeper consideration. The old hacks, as she had said to Godfrey, were being squeezed out as decently as might be, so as to give place to fresher and honester men, and Edgar’s position was daily growing more insecure. But she had thought he was sticking to it desperately. Was the worm about to turn? And had the projected dinner-party anything to do with the turning?