“The Court is full of visitors,” George remarked a few minutes later, “so I thought I’d come here and stay. I can drive over there every day. Next week we go back to Rome again for another month, and then his Excellency returns on leave to England.”
“You’re cultivating quite an official air, my dear boy,” exclaimed the rector, refilling his pipe and glad to change the subject of conversation. “Your letters to me headed ‘Ministry of War—First Division’ are most imposing documents. I’d like to have a trot round Rome with you. I’ve never been farther than Boulogne—seven-and-sixpence worth of sea-sickness from Folkestone—and I don’t think much of foreign parts, if that’s a specimen of them.”
Macbean smiled at his uncle’s bluff remarks, and then fell to giving him some description of the Minister’s palace in Rome, and of his position in the society of the Eternal City.
After early tea Hayes brought round the trap, and the two men drove over to Orton Court, where, on entering, there were signs everywhere for the coming event, which, now that it was known who Camillo Morini really was, created much excitement throughout the countryside. The decision that the marriage should take place in England had been quite a sudden one—but, curiously enough, it had been at Dubard’s own instigation. George had gathered that fact, and it held him mystified. The bridegroom had some hidden reason in making that suggestion.
The instant the rector saw Mary he recognised what a change had taken place in her. Within himself he asked whether it was due to the secret that his nephew had confessed to him. Standing in the long, old-fashioned drawing-room, with its big bowls of roses, he apologised for not calling earlier, and congratulated her; whereupon she responded in a quiet, inert voice—
“It is very kind of you, Mr Sinclair—very kind indeed. I don’t know if you’ve had a card, it has all been done in such a rush, but you will come on Thursday, won’t you?”
He accepted with pleasure, and glancing at his nephew, saw that the young man’s face told its own sad tale.
“Has not the count arrived?” asked Macbean of her.
“No. I had a wire this morning. He leaves Paris to-night, so he’ll be here after luncheon to-morrow.”
Leaving Sinclair with Mary, George went along to the study, where he found the Minister busy with some important despatches which had just arrived by special messenger from the Italian Embassy in London, therefore he was compelled to seat himself at the table opposite and assist his chief.