“It was not so much that,” he said, “as My Own Work.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot said of course, with an emphasis which quite clearly showed that she had forgotten what it was. But Colin, who had for some months been in no condition to see anything clearly, obligingly explained to her the very tricky nature of running powers, instancing the lines from Marylebone and Paddington as far as Princes Risborough, over which two railway companies have joint control. Mrs. Arbuthnot listened with the same deceptive air of appreciation that had ensnared her late husband’s regiment, who all expounded to her their views on polo, women, cricket, the Government, horses, the way Major Potter played that last hand at bridge, obscure Indian dialects, fellers that came out for a season and wrote books, the Mess Secreta
