“There is no change in the fellow’s attitude. I don’t imagine there will be until the last moment. He is just a pig-headed, insufferably conceited Englishman, full of class prejudices to his finger tips.” “He is nevertheless a man,” she said thoughtfully. “I heard only yesterday that he earned considerable distinction even in his brief soldiering.” “No doubt,” Fenn remarked, without enthusiasm, “he has the bravery of an animal. By the bye, the Bishop dropped in to see me this morning.” “Really?” she asked. “What did he want?” “Just a personal call,” was the elaborately careless reply. “He likes to look in for a chat, now and then. He spoke about Orden, too. I persuaded him that if we don’t succeed within the next twenty four hours, it will be his duty to see what he can do.” “Oh, but that was too bad!” she declared. “You know how he feels his position, poor man. He will simply loathe having to tell Julian--Mr. Orden, I mean that he is connected with--” “Well, with what, Miss Abbeway?” “With anything in the nature of a conspiracy. Of course, Mr. Orden wouldn’t understand. How could he? I think it was cruel to bring the Bishop into the matter at all.” “Nothing,” Fenn pronounced, “is cruel that helps the cause. What will you drink, Miss Abbeway? You’ll have some champagne, won’t you?” “What a horrible idea!” she exclaimed, smiling at him nevertheless. “Fancy a great Labour leader suggesting such a thing! No, I’ll have some light French wine, thank you.” Fenn passed the order on to the waiter, a little crestfallen. “I don’t often drink anything myself,” he said, “but this seemed to me to be something of an occasion.” “You have some news, then?” “Not at all. I meant dining with you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, that?” she murmured. “That is simply a matter of routine. I thought you had some news, or some work.” “Isn’t it possible, Miss Abbeway,” he pleaded, “that we might have some interests outside our work?” “I shouldn’t think so,” she answered, with an insolence which was above his head. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t have,” he persisted. “You must tell me your tastes,” she suggested. “Are you fond of grand opera, for instance? I adore it. ‘Parsifal’--‘The Ring’?” “I don’t know much about music,” he admitted. “My sister, who used to live with me, plays the piano.” “We’ll drop music, then,” she said hastily. “Books? But I remember you once told me that you had never read anything except detective novels, and that you didn’t care for poetry. Sports? I adore tennis and I am rather good at golf.” “I have never wasted a single moment of my life in games,” he declared proudly. She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, you see, that leaves us rather a long way apart, outside our work, doesn’t it?” “Even if I were prepared to admit that, which I am not,” he replied, “our work itself is surely enough to make up for all other things.”