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He had had his usual luck. Fancy those few kind words of his to that idiotic hen of a woman being so richly repaid. Oh! well—cast your bread upon the waters. He had always been a kindhearted man. And generous! In the future he would be able to be even more generous. Benevolent visions floated before his eyes. Little Dimitri … And the good Constantopopolus struggling with his little restaurant … What pleasant surprises for them….
The toothpick probed unguardedly and Mr. Amberiotis winced. Rosy visions of the future faded and gave way to apprehensions of the immediate future. He explored tenderly with his tongue. He took out his notebook. Twelve o’clock. 58, Queen Charlotte Street.
He tried to recapture his former exultant mood. But in vain. The horizon had shrunk to six bare words:
“58, Queen Charlotte Street. Twelve o’clock.”
III
At the Glengowrie Court Hotel, South Kensington, breakfast was over. In the lounge, Miss Sainsbury Seale was sitting talking to Mrs. Bolitho. They occupied adjacent tables in the dining room and had made friends the day after Miss Sainsbury Seale’s arrival a week ago.
Miss Sainsbury Seale said:
“You know, dear, it really has stopped aching! Not a twinge! I think perhaps I’ll ring up—”
Mrs. Bolitho interrupted her.
“Now don’t be foolish, my dear. You go to the dentist and get it over.”
Mrs. Bolitho was a tall, commanding female with a deep voice. Miss Sainsbury Seale was a woman of forty odd with indecisively bleached hair rolled up in untidy curls. Her clothes were shapeless and rather artistic, and her pince-nez were always dropping off. She was a great talker.
She said now wistfully:
“But really, you know, it doesn’t ache at all.”
“Nonsense, you told me you hardly slept a wink last night.”
“No, I didn’t—no, indeed—but perhaps, now, the nerve has actually died.”
“All the more reason to go to the dentist,” said Mrs. Bolitho firmly. “We all like to put it off, but that’s just cowardice. Better make up one’s mind and get it over!”
Something hovered on Miss Sainsbury Seale’s lips. Was it the rebellious murmur of: “Yes, but it’s not your tooth!”
All she actually said, however, was:
“I expect you’re right. And Mr. Morley is such a careful man and really never hurts one at all.”
IV
The meeting of the Board of Directors was over. It had passed off smoothly. The report was good. There should have been no discordant note. Yet to the sensitive Mr. Samuel Rotherstein there had been something, some nuance in the chairman’s manner.
There had been, once or twice, a shortness, an acerbity, in his tone—quite uncalled for by the proceedings.
Some secret worry, perhaps? But somehow Rotherstein could not connect a secret worry with Alistair Blunt. He was such an unemotional man. He was so very normal. So essentially British.
There was, of cours
e, always liver … Mr. Rotherstein’s liver gave him a bit of trouble from time to time. But he’d never known Alistair to complain of his liver. Alistair’s health was as sound as his brain and his grasp of finance. It was not annoying heartiness—just quiet well-being.
And yet—there was something—once or twice the chairman’s hand had wandered to his face. He had sat supporting his chin. Not his normal attitude. And once or twice he had seemed actually—yes, distrait.
They came out of the boardroom and passed down the stairs.
Rotherstein said:
“Can’t give you a lift, I suppose?”
Alistair Blunt smiled and shook his head.
