come to my house I must listen to you now, and I’m ready to hear all you have to say. But will you please remember that it is my house, and that I do not allow any man to come here and behave as he pleases. I insist that you act according to my sense of hospitality or we will go out on the public road. Will you please sit down?”
Davenport Carr had never been spoken to like that in all his life, but angry as he was he recognized Dane’s right to deliver that extraordinary speech. He sat down.
Dane got into his hammock and lit a cigarette with a detachment that did not help the temper of the man who was staring at him. The minute he had seen through his study window who his unwelcome guest was he knew he was in for it and set himself to face the music. But he did not mind what he would hear half so much as he did the scene that was likely to ensue when Valerie arrived. But whatever happened he was determined to keep his own temper, to bear in mind the point of view of a father in the matter, and also the point of view of the man brought up as Carr had been.
He was no sooner in his hammock than Lee came through the door with a tray and glasses. Dane could hardly keep from showing his appreciation of the matchless behaviour of his servant, who, gliding like a spirit, placed the things on the red table, moved it near the hammock, and looked at Davenport Carr as if he saw him for the first time.
“What you have, Meester Carr, wine or whisky?” he asked, with his impassive urbanity.
“I—I—nothing. I won’t drink.” Carr stared furiously past him out into the garden. He felt he was in some conspiracy of management.
“Meester Barrington?”
“Pour out two whiskies, Lee.”
