Lord Saxham was certainly in his most benignant mood.
“By all means. He might be useful.”
Lady Mary wrote a note to Farquhar, addressed to his chambers in the Temple. It was a somewhat formal letter—when she put pen to paper, Mary was always formal—inviting him to dine in Belgrave Square.
Farquhar’s first impulse was to refuse. He had no wish to mingle with the aristocracy on unequal terms. When he became Lord Chancellor, it would be a different matter.
Then he thought of Lady Mary’s winsome appearance, and he altered his mind. He sent a note accepting the invitation. But of course he knew why he was being asked. They wanted to know if he could give any reliable information about Guy Rossett.
He presented himself at Belgrave Square on the tick of the clock. Not for him the mauvais quart d’heure consecrated to meaningless conversation in the drawing-room.
Lord Saxham shook him kindly by the hand. Lady Mary was graciousness itself. Could she ever be anything but kind, even if there was, at the back, a little subtle feminine diplomacy.
It was a party of three, waited on in solemn state by the butler and two footmen. There was not even a fourth to make matters even. Farquhar smiled inwardly. These two guileless persons, father and daughter, must have desired his company exceedingly! Well, he would learn all about it later on.
The servants had withdrawn. The men smoked. Lady Mary did not leave the room. It was an informal party. Farquhar puffed leisurely at his cigar. He was awaiting developments.
Saxham opened the ball. He was a most undisciplined person. He was always like a bull in a china shop, charging with blind fury.