For very delight of it he lingered over his courtship, finding charm in the pretence of uncertainty long after it had ceased to exist. To Phillida also there was pleasure not only in the winning, but in the exquisite game itself; once or twice when Theodore was hovering near avowal, she deferred the inevitable, eluded him with laughter, asked tacitly to play a little longer. … In the end the avowal came suddenly, on the flash and impulse of a moment—when Phillida hesitated over one of his gifts, a print she had admired on the wall of his sitting-room, duly brought the next day for her acceptance.
“No, I oughtn’t to take it—it’s one of your treasures,” she remonstrated.
“If you’d take all I have—and me with it,” he stammered. … That was the crisis of the exquisite game—and pretence of uncertainty was over.
III
One impression of those first golden hours that stayed with him always was the certainty with which they had dwelt on the details of their common future; he could see Phillida with her hands on his shoulders explaining earnestly that they must live very near to the Dad—the dear old boy had no one but herself and they mustn’t let him miss her too much. And when Theodore asked, “You don’t think he’ll object to me?” Rathbone’s disapproval was the only possible cloud—which lifted at Phillida’s amused assurance that the old dear wasn’t as blind as all that and, having objections, would have voiced them before it was too late.
“You don’t suppose he hasn’t noticed—just because he hasn’t said anything!” … Whereupon Theodore caught at her hands and demanded how long she had noticed?—and they fell to a happy retracing of this step and that in their courtship.
When they heard Rathbone enter she ran down alone, telling Theodore to stay where he was till she called him; returning in five minutes or so, half-tearful and half-smiling, to say the dear old thing was waiting in the library. Then Theodore, in his turn, went down to the library where, red to the ears and stammering platitudes, he shook hands with his future father-in-law—proceeding eventually to details of his financial position and the hope that Rathbone would not insist upon too lengthy an engagement? … The answer was so slow in coming that he repeated his question nervously.
“No,” said Rathbone at last, “I don’t know that I”—(he laid stress on the pronoun)—“I don’t know that I should insist upon a very lengthy engagement. Only. …”
Again he paused so long that Theodore repeated “Only?”
“Only—there may be obstacles—not of my making or Phillida’s. Connected with the office—your work … I dare say you’ve been too busy with your own affairs to give very much attention to the affairs of the world in general; still I conclude the papers haven’t allowed you to forget that the Federal Council was to vote today on the resolution to take punitive action? Result is just through—half an hour ago. Resolution carried, by a majority of one only.”
“Was it?” said Theodore—and remembered a vague impulse of resentment, a difficulty in bringing down his thoughts from Phillida to the earthiness of politics. It took him an effort and a moment to add: “Close thing—but they’ve pulled it off.”
“They have,” said Rathbone. “Just pulled it off—but it remains to be seen if that’s matter for congratulation. … The vote commits us to action—definitely—and the minority have entered a protest against punitive action. … It seems unlikely that the protest is only formal.”
He was dry and curiously deliberate—leaning back in his chair, speaking quietly, with fingers pressed together. … To the end Theodore remembered him like that; a square-jawed man, leaning back in his chair, speaking slowly, unemotionally—the harbinger of infinite misfortune. … And himself, the listener, a young man engrossed by his own new happiness; irritated, at first, by the intrusion of that which did not concern it; then (as once before in Vallance’s rooms) uneasy and conscious of a threat.
He heard himself asking, “You think it’s—serious?” and saw Rathbone’s mouth twist into the odd semblance of a smile.
“I think so. One way or other we shall know within a week.”
“You can’t mean—war?” Theodore asked again—remembering Holt and his “Impossible!”
“It doesn’t seem unlikely,” said Rathbone.
He had risen, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and begun to pace backwards and forwards. “Something may happen at the last minute—but it’s difficult to see how they can draw back. They have gone too far. They’re committed, just as we are—committed to a principle. … If we yield the Council abdicates its authority once for all; it’s an end of the League—a plain break, and the Lord knows what next. And the other side daren’t stop at verbal protest. They will have to push their challenge; there’s too much clamour behind them. …”
“There was Transylvania,” Theodore reminded him.
“I know—and nothing came of it. But that wasn’t pushed quite so far. … They threatened, but never definitely—they left themselves a possibility of retreat. Now … as I said, something may happen … and, meanwhile, to go back to what I meant about you, personally, how this might affect you. …”
He dropped into swift explanation. “Considerable rearrangement in the work of the Department—if it should be necessary to place it on a war-footing.” Theodore’s duties—if the worst should happen—would certainly take him out of London and therefore part him from Phillida. “I can tell you that definitely—now.”
Perhaps he realized that the announcement, on a day of betrothal, was brutal; for he checked himself suddenly in his walk to and fro, clapped the young man good-naturedly on the shoulder, repeated that “Something might happen” and supposed he would not be sorry to hear that a member of the Government required his presence—“So you and Phillida can dine without superfluous parents.” … And he said no word of war
