Mr. Tredegar coughed slightly. “May I trouble you for that other box of cigars, Amherst? No, not the Cabañas.” Bessy rose and handed him the box on which his glance significantly rested. “Ah, thank you, my dear. I was about to ask,” he continued, looking about for the cigar-lighter, which flamed unheeded at Amherst’s elbow, “what special purpose will be served by a preliminary review of the questions to be discussed tomorrow.”
“Ah—exactly,” murmured hlr. Langhope. “The madeira, my dear John? No—ah—please—to the left!”
Amherst impatiently reversed the direction in which he had set the precious vessel moving, and turned to Mr. Tredegar, who was conspicuously lighting his cigar with a match extracted from his waist-coat pocket.
“The purpose is to define my position in the matter; and I prefer that Bessy should do this with your help rather than with mine.”
Mr. Tredegar surveyed his cigar through drooping lids, as though the question propounded by Amherst were perched on its tip.
“Is not your position naturally involved in and defined by hers? You will excuse my saying that—technically speaking, of course—I cannot distinctly conceive of it as having any separate existence.”
Mr. Tredegar spoke with the deliberate mildness
that was regarded as his most effective weapon at the
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