smoke. I knew that these “Indian moods” were of short duration, and, sure enough, presently:
“God bless us all, Knox,” he said, breaking into an amused smile, “how we bristle when someone tries to prove that we are not infallible! How human we are, Knox, but how fortunate that we can laugh at ourselves.”
I sighed with relief, for Harley at these times imposed a severe strain even upon my easy-going disposition.
“Let us go down to the billiard room,” he continued. “I will play you a hundred up. I have arrived at a point where my ideas persistently work in circles. The best cure is golf; failing golf, billiards.”
The billiard room was immediately beneath us, adjoining the last apartment in the east wing, and there we made our way. Harley played keenly, deliberately, concentrating upon the game. I was less successful, for I found myself alternately glancing toward the door and the open window, in the hope that Val Beverley would join us. I was disappointed, however. We saw no more of the ladies until tea-time, and if a spirit of constraint had prevailed throughout luncheon, a veritable demon of unrest presided upon the terrace during tea.
Madame de Stämer made apologies on behalf of the Colonel. He was prolonging his siesta, but he hoped to join us at dinner.
“Is the Colonel’s heart affected?” Harley asked.
Madame de Stämer shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, blankly.
“It is mysterious, the state of his health,” she replied. “An old trouble, which began years and years ago in Cuba.”
