Chapter XIII: Over the Tea and the Toast

The next morning there were, at least, three eventful breakfasts “partaken of,” as it was once the fashion to say; one at “The Wilderness,” one at the Savoy, and one at the Kyneston town house in Prince’s Gate.

When Professor Marmion came down he was a little late, for he had done a long night’s work, finishing his lecture-notes to his own satisfaction, or, at least, as nearly as he could get there. Like all good workers, he was never quite satisfied with what he did. When the maid had closed the door of the breakfast-room, he looked across the table at his daughter with a twinkle in his eyes, and said:

“Niti, before Lord Leighton left last night he had a talk with me, and you were partly the subject of it.”

“And who might have been the other part of the subject, Dad?” she asked, with excellently simulated composure.

“That, Niti,” he replied slowly, “I expect you know quite as well as I do. I am inclined to consider myself the victim of something very like a conspiracy.”

“I think you are quite right, Dad,” she replied, with perfect calmness. “But the chief conspirators were the Fates themselves. We others only did as we had to do. When you have solved that problem of N to the fourth, I think you will see that we could really have done nothing else, because, if you once crossed the border-line--the horizon which Professor Cayley spoke of, I mean--you ought to be on speaking terms with them.”

Before he replied to this somewhat searching remark, the man who had crossed the horizon emptied his coffee cup, and set it down in the saucer with a perceptible rattle. Then he said more slowly than before:

“My dear Niti, there are other mysteries than N to the fourth. I only wish now to confess frankly to you that I have tried to solve one of them, perhaps the greatest of all, and ignominiously failed. I learnt a great deal last night from a young man to whom I thought I could have taught anything, and I got up this morning in a distinctly chastened frame of mind; and so, to make a long story short, if you like to drive into town and bring Commander Merrill back to lunch, I shall be very pleased to have a chat with him afterwards.”

The next moment Nitocris was on the other side of the table, with her arm round her father’s shoulders. She kissed him, and whispered:

“You dearest of dears! If I could have loved you any more, I would now, but I can’t. I won’t drive into town, because Brenda’s coming out with Lord Leighton in her new motor to fetch me; at least, she will, if other papas have been as delightful as you have been.”

He put his hand up and stroked her cheek with a gesture that was older than she was, and said with a smile which meant more than she could comprehend:

“Ah! so it was a conspiracy, after all! Well, dear, I hope that, for all your sakes, it will turn out a successful one.”

About the same time Brenda was saying to her parents:

“Poppa and Mammy, I’ve got some news to tell you, and I’ve slept on it, so as to make quite sure about the telling.”

“And what might that be, Brenda?” asked her mother, looking up a trifle anxiously. “Nothing very serious, I hope.”

“Anything connected with the Marmions?” asked her father, in a voice that sounded as though it had come from somewhere far away. He had the Times propped up against the sugar basin on his left hand, and he had just read the announcement of Franklin Marmion’s lecture for the following evening, and this was quite a serious matter for him.

“It’s connected with them in this way,” said Brenda, leaning her elbows on the table. “You and Uncle have wanted a coronet in the family, and you know that I’ve refused three, because the men who wore them weren’t fit to respect, to say nothing about loving. Well, I’ve just discovered that I do love a man who has one coronet now, and will have another some day, unless something unexpected happens to him; but mind, it’s the man I love and want to marry, and I’d want to do it just the same if he was still the same man he is, and hadn’t either a coronet or a dollar to his name.”

“That’s like you, Brenda, and it sounds good,” said her father, tearing his attention away from the alluring title of Franklin Marmion’s lecture. “Now, who is it?”