The country happened to be at the moment in the midst of one of its periodical difficulties with France. There had been a good deal of diplomatic friction, and a certain amount of anxiety at the Foreign Office. Marcella lit the silver kettle again and made her man some fresh tea, while he told her the news, and they discussed the various points of the telegrams he had copied for her, with a comrade's freedom and vivacity. Then she said: "Well, I have had an interesting time too! That young Tressady has been to tea." "Oh! has he? They say there is a lot of stuff in him, and he may do us a great deal of mischief. How did you find him?" "Oh, very clever, very limited--and a mass of prejudices," she said, laughing. "I never saw an odder mixture of knowledge and ignorance." "What? Knowledge of India and the East?--that kind of thing?" She nodded. "Knowledge of everything except the subject he has come home to fight about! Do you know, Aldous--" She paused. She was sitting on a stool beside him, her arm upon his knee. "What do I know?" he said, his hand seeking hers. "Well, I can't help feeling that that man might live and learn. He isn't a mere obstructive block--like the rest." Maxwell laughed. "Then Fontenoy is not as shrewd as usual. They say he regards him as their best recruit." "Never mind. I rather wish you'd try to make friends with him." Maxwell, however, helped himself to cake and made no response. On the two or three occasions on which he had met George Tressady, he had been conscious, if the truth were told, of a certain vague antipathy to the young man. Marcella pondered. "No," she said, "no--I don't think after all he's your sort. Suppose _I_ see what can be done!" And she got up with her flashing smile--half love, half fun--and crossed the room to summon her little boy, Hallin, for his evening play. Maxwell looked after her, not heeding at all what she was saying, heeding only herself, her voice, the atmosphere of charm and life she carried with her. CHAPTER VII