'I was just saying to Mrs. Chadwick,' he murmured, 'that, delighted as I have always been to find myself a guest at this house, I never found it so delightful as now, when it is positively an oasis in this desert of London.'
'We may think ourselves lucky in securing you, Mr. Pratt,' said Eleanor. 'I should have thought that you, who are so essentially a portion of the world, would have been with the world.'
'Where should I go to, my dear Miss Irvine?' said Spiridion plaintively. 'To Goodwood, to sit on the burnt lawn in a broiling sun, with a hundred wretches bawling their wagers in my ears; to Cowes, to sit on the damp deck of a yacht with my knees up to my chin, to have to move perpetually while the men shift their horrible sails, and to get my fingers covered with pitch and tar? That's what the world is doing just now, I believe, and I confess it has no attraction in my eyes.'
'Mrs. Hamblin is still in town, is she not?' asked Mrs. Chadwick, looking fixedly at him.
'Yes, I believe she is,' said Spiridion, with the faintest trace of colour appearing in his cheeks; 'Mr. Hamblin's official position prevents his getting away just yet, and--and--'
'Exactly,' said Mrs. Chadwick. 'Where will they go when Mr. Hamblin can get away?'
'I have no idea for certain,' said Spiridion, who was growing uncomfortable under Mrs. Chadwick's gaze. 'I don't think, however, that they will leave town till October, and then I heard something of their going to Italy.'
'You had yourself some idea of wintering in Rome, had you not?' asked his unswerving questioner.
'I had at one time, but that was before you--I mean to say that I have given up that notion, and I am now by no means certain of my plans.'
To relieve him from his confusion, Mr. Spiridion Pratt was only too glad to welcome the entrance of Mr. Chadwick; a big, burly, broad-shouldered man of about fifty, with a bald head fringed with crisp iron-gray hair, clean-shaved ruddy face, merry gray eyes, and a manner redeemed from vulgarity by its hearty geniality.
'Glad to see you, Mr. Pratt,' said he, seizing Spiridion's little hand in a tight grip, which printed off an impression of the cameo on his other finger. 'How d'ye do? Nell, you were off early this morning, young lady; I thought to see you at breakfast, but they told me you had gone out.'