“Maurice has just come in, father. Just there, on your left, with a foreign-looking man.”
The General looked in the direction indicated, and caught the eye of the tall young man, who rose, and advanced hesitatingly to their table.
He shook hands with Isobel and her father. The General effected a hasty introduction.
“My nephew, Mr Farquhar, Lady Mary Rossett, Mr Rossett.”
Lady Mary bowed. Guy half rose and bowed. He felt a little bit churlish. He was of a very jealous disposition. He fancied Isobel’s reception of her cousin was perhaps a little too cordial. Her smile was very welcoming, as she murmured, “Fancy meeting you here, Maurice.”
Farquhar looked at the young diplomatist steadily, as if he were trying to recall a memory. Then he recollected.
“Rossett, Guy Rossett, of course, I remember you now perfectly. You were with me at Harrow for one term. You came into Brogden’s House just as I was leaving.”
And then Guy remembered too. “Of course, I recollect now. I thought your face was familiar to me. You were the head of the house, and I was your fag. A graceless little cub, I fancy.”
Farquhar laughed genially. “No, I fancy you were an awful decent little chap while I was there. I can’t vouch for you after my restraining influence was removed.”
There was a little more conversation, and then Mr Farquhar returned to his foreign friend.