"Come over here, West. You
can smoke. My sister likes it."
He seated himself at the piano, indicated a chair near him to his guest,
and began to play.
West, with his back to the light, sat motionless, listening. Lady
Cottesbrook took up a book, and ignored him. There was something
unfathomable about her brother's bailiff to which she strongly objected.
An hour later, when he had gone, she spoke of it.
"That man has the eyes of a criminal, Jack. I am sure he isn't
trustworthy. He is too brazen. Where in the world did you pick him up?"
To which Babbacombe made composed reply:
"I know all about him, and he is absolutely trustworthy. He was
recommended to me by a friend. I am sorry you thought it necessary to be
rude to him. There is nothing offensive about him that I can see."
"My dear boy, you see nothing offensive in a great many people whom I
positively detest. However, he isn't worth an argument. Only, if you
must ask the man to dine, for goodness' sake another time have some one
else for me to talk to. I frankly admit that I have no talent for
entertaining people of that class. Now tell me the latest about Cynthia
Mortimer. Of course, she is one of the chosen guests?"
"She has promised to spend a week here," Babbacombe answered somewhat
reluctantly. "I haven't seen her lately. She has been in Paris."
"What has she been doing there? Buying her trousseau?"
"I really don't know.
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