“The English people,” Pamela interposed,
“have a genius for concealment which amounts
to stupidity.”
“I have a theory,” Fischer said, “that
to be phlegmatic after a certain pitch is a sign of
low vitality. However, we shall see. Certainly,
if England is to be saved from her present trouble,
it will not be the Lutchesters of the world who will
do it, nor, it seems, her Navy.”
They found their way to a large cabaret, where Pamela
listened to an indifferent performance a little wearily.
The news of what was termed a naval disaster to Great
Britain was flashed upon the screen, and, generally
speaking, the audience was stunned. Fischer behaved
throughout the evening with tact and discretion.
He made few references to the matter, and was careful
not to indulge in any undue exhilaration. Once,
when Van Teyl had left the box, however, to speak
to some friends, he turned earnestly to Pamela.
“Will it please you soon,” he begged,
“to resume our conversation of the other day?
However you may look at it, things have changed, have
they not? An invincible British Navy has been
one of the fundamental principles of beliefs in American
politics. Now that it is destroyed, the outlook
is different. I could go myself to the proper
quarter in Washington, or Von Schwerin is here to
be my spokesman. I have a fancy, though, to work
with you. You know why.”
She moved uneasily in her place.
“I have no idea,” she objected, “what
it is that you have to propose. Besides, I am
only just a woman who has been entrusted with a few
diplomatic errands.”
“You are the niece of Senator Hastings,”
Fischer reminded her, “and Hastings is the man
through whom I should like my proposal to go to the
President. It is an honest offer which I have
to make, and although it cannot pass through official
channels, it is official in the highest sense of the
word, because it comes to me from the one man who is
in a position to make himself responsible for it.”
Her brother came back to the box before Pamela could
reply, but, as they parted that night, she gave Fischer
her hand.
“Come and see our new quarters,” she invited.
“I shall be at home any time to-morrow afternoon.”
It was one of the moments of Fischer’s life.
He bowed low over her fingers.
“I accept, with great pleasure,” he murmured.
Sonia had the air of one steeped in an almost ecstatic
content. On her return from the roof garden she
had exchanged her wonderful gown for a white silk
negligee, and her headdress of pearls for a quaint
little cap. She was stretched upon a sofa drawn
before the wide-flung French windows of her little
sitting-room at the Ritz-Carlton, a salon decorated
in pink and white, and filled almost to overflowing
with the roses which she loved. By her side,
in an easy chair which she had pressed him to draw
up to her couch, sat Lutchester.
