As for Jacob, Sir Wilfrid had cherished a particular weakness for him in the Eton-jacket stage, and later on, indeed, when the lad enjoyed a brief moment of glory in the Eton eleven. But at Oxford, to Sir Wilfrid’s thinking, he had suffered eclipse—had become a somewhat heavy, apathetic, pseudo-cynical youth, displaying his mother’s inertia without her good temper, too slack to keep up his cricket, too slack to work for the honor schools, at no time without friends, but an enigma to most of them, and, apparently, something of a burden to himself.
And now, out of that ugly slough, a man had somehow emerged, in whom Sir Wilfrid, who was well acquainted with the race, discerned the stirring of all sorts of strong inherited things, formless still, but struggling to expression.
“He looked at me just now, when I talked of his being duke, as his father would sometimes look.”
His father? Hubert Delafield had been an obstinate, daredevil, heroic sort of fellow, who had lost his life in the Chudleigh salmon river trying to save a gillie who had missed his footing. A man much hated—and much beloved; capable of the most contradictory actions. He had married his wife for money, would often boast of it, and would, none the less, give away his last farthing recklessly, passionately, if he were asked for it, in some way that touched his feelings. Able, too; though not so able as the great Duke, his father.
“Hubert Delafield was never happy, that I can remember,” thought Wilfrid Bury, as he sat over his fire, “and this chap has the same expression. That woman in Bruton Street would never do for him—apart from all the other unsuitability. He ought to find something sweet and restful. And yet I don’t know. The Delafields are a discontented lot. If you plague them, they are inclined to love you. They want something hard to get their teeth in. How the old Duke adored his termagant of a wife!”
It was late on Sunday afternoon before Sir Wilfrid was able to present himself in Lady Henry’s drawing-room; and when he arrived there, he found plenty of other people in possession, and had to wait for his chance.
Lady Henry received him with a brusque “At last,” which, however, he took with equanimity. He was in no sense behind his time. On Thursday, when parting with her, he had pleaded for deliberation. “Let me study the situation a little; and don’t, for Heaven’s sake, let’s be too tragic about the whole thing.”
Whether Lady Henry was now in the tragic mood or no, he could not at first determine. She was no longer confined to the inner shrine of the back drawing-room. Her chair was placed in the large room, and she was the centre of a lively group of callers who were discussing the events of the week in Parliament, with the light and mordant zest of people well acquainted with the personalities they were talking of. She was apparently better in health, he noticed; at any rate, she was more at ease, and enjoying herself more than on the previous Wednesday. All her social characteristics were in full play; the blunt and careless freedom which made her the good comrade of the men she talked with—as good a brain and as hard a hitter as they—mingled with the occasional sally or caprice which showed her very much a woman.
Very few other women were there. Lady Henry did not want women on Sundays, and was at no pains whatever to hide the fact. But Mademoiselle Julie was at the tea-table, supported by an old white-haired general, in whom Sir Wilfrid recognized a man recently promoted to one of the higher posts in the War Office. Tea, however, had been served, and Mademoiselle Le Breton was now showing her companion a portfolio of photographs, on which the old man was holding forth.
“Am I too late for a cup?” said Sir Wilfrid, after she had greeted him with cordiality. “And what are those pictures?”
“They are some photos of the Khaibar and Tirah,” said Mademoiselle Le Breton. “Captain Warkworth brought them to show Lady Henry.”
“Ah, the scene of his exploits,” said Sir Wilfrid, after a glance at them. “The young man distinguished himself, I understand?”
“Oh, very much so,” said General M’Gill, with emphasis. “He showed brains, and he had luck.”
“A great deal of luck, I hear,” said Sir Wilfrid, accepting a piece of cake. “He’ll get his step up, I suppose. Anything else?”
“Difficult to say. But the good men are always in request,” said General M’Gill, smiling.
“By-the-way, I heard somebody mention his name last night for this Mokembe mission,” said Sir Wilfrid, helping himself to teacake.
“Oh, that’s quite undecided,” said the General, sharply. “There is no immediate hurry for a week or two, and the government must send the best man possible.”
“No doubt,” said Sir Wilfrid.
It interested him to observe that Mademoiselle Le Breton was no longer pale. As the General spoke, a bright color had rushed into her cheeks. It seemed to Sir Wilfrid that she turned away and busied herself with the photographs in order to hide it.
The General rose, a thin, soldierly figure, with gray hair that drooped forward, and two bright spots of red on the cheekbones. In contrast with the expansiveness of his previous manner to Mademoiselle Le Breton, he was now a trifle frowning and stiff—the high official once more, and great man.
“Good night, Sir Wilfrid. I must be off.”
“How are your sons?” said Sir
