The Great Impersonation by E. Phillips Oppenheim (books to read now txt) 📕

of any account against Dominey. He plays far too well for any self-respecting Ger⁠—”

The Ambassador broke off and paused while he helped himself to mayonnaise.

“For any self-respecting German to play against,” he concluded.

Luncheon was a very pleasant meal, and a good many people noticed the vivacity of the beautiful Lady Dominey whose picture was beginning to appear in the illustrated papers. Afterwards they drank coffee and sipped liqueurs under the great elm tree on the lawn, listening to the music and congratulating themselves upon having made their escape from London. In the ever-shifting panorama of gaily-dressed women and flannel-clad men, the monotony of which was varied here and there by the passing of a diplomatist or a Frenchman, scrupulously attired in morning clothes, were many familiar faces. Caroline and a little group of friends waved to them from the terrace. Eddy Pelham, in immaculate white, and a long tennis coat with dark blue edgings, paused to speak to them on his way to the courts.

“How is the motor business, Eddy?” Dominey asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“So, so! I’m not quite so keen as I was. To tell you the truth,” the young man confided, glancing around and lowering his voice so that no one should share the momentous information, “I was lucky enough to pick up a small share in Jere Moore’s racing stable at Newmarket, the other day. I fancy I know a little more about gee-gees than I do about the inside of motors, what?”

“I should think very possibly that you are right,” Dominey assented, as the young man passed on with a farewell salute.

Terniloff looked after him curiously.

“It is the type of young man, that,” he declared, “which we cannot understand. What would happen to him, in the event of a war? In the event of his being called upon, say, either to fight or do some work of national importance for his country?”

“I expect he would do it,” Dominey replied. “He would do it pluckily, wholeheartedly and badly. He is a type of the upper-class young Englishman, over-sanguine and entirely undisciplined. They expect, and their country expects for them that in the case of emergency pluck would take the place of training.”

The Right Honourable Gerald Watson stood upon the steps talking to the wife of the Italian Ambassador. She left him presently, and he came strolling down the lawn with his hands behind his back and his eyes seeming to see out past the golf links.

“There goes a man,” Terniloff murmured, “whom lately I have found changed. When I first came here he met me quite openly. I believe, even now, he is sincerely desirous of peace and amicable relations between our two countries, and yet something has fallen between us. I cannot tell what it is. I cannot tell even of what nature it is, but I have an instinct for people’s attitude towards me, and the English are the worst race in the world at hiding their feelings. Has Mr. Watson, I wonder come under the spell of your connection, the Duke of Worcester? He seemed so friendly with both of us down in Norfolk.”

Their womenkind left them at that moment to talk to some acquaintances seated a short distance way. Mr. Watson, passing within a few yards of them, was brought to a standstill by Dominey’s greeting. They talked for a moment or two upon idle subjects.

“Your news, I trust, continues favourable?” the Ambassador remarked, observing the etiquette which required him to be the first to leave the realms of ordinary conversation.

“It is a little negative in quality,” the other answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I am summoned to Downing Street again at six o’clock.”

“I have already confided the result of my morning despatches to the Prime Minister,” Terniloff observed.

“I went through them before I came down here,” was the somewhat doubtful reply.

“You will have appreciated, I hope, their genuinely pacific tone?” Terniloff asked anxiously.

His interlocutor bowed and then drew himself up. It was obvious that the strain of the last few days was telling upon him. There were lines about his mouth, and his eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

“Words are idle things to deal with at a time like this,” he said. “One thing, however, I will venture to say to you, Prince, here and under these circumstances. There will be no war unless it be the will of your country.”

Terniloff was for a moment unusually pale. It was an episode of unrecorded history. He rose to his feet and raised his hat.

“There will be no war,” he said solemnly.

The Cabinet Minister passed on with a lighter step. Dominey, more clearly than ever before, understood the subtle policy which had chosen for his great position a man as chivalrous and faithful and yet as simple-minded as Terniloff. He looked after the retreating figure of the Cabinet Minister with a slight smile at the corner of his lips.

“In a time like this,” he remarked significantly, “one begins to understand why one of our great writers⁠—was it Bernhardi, I wonder?⁠—has written that no island could ever breed a race of diplomatists.”

“The seas which engirdle this island,” the Ambassador said thoughtfully, “have brought the English great weal, as they may bring to her much woe. The too-nimble brain of the diplomat has its parallel of insincerity in the people whose interests he seems to guard. I believe in the honesty of the English politicians, I have placed that belief on record in the small volume of memoirs which I shall presently entrust to you. But we talk too seriously for a summer afternoon. Let us illustrate to the world our opinion of the political situation and play another nine holes at golf.”

Dominey rose willingly to his feet, and the two men strolled away towards the first tee.

“By the by,” Terniloff asked, “what of our cheerful little friend Seaman? He ought to be busy just now.”

“Curiously enough, he is returning from Germany tonight,” Dominey announced. “I expect him at Berkeley square. He is coming direct to