She arched her eyebrows. “Does his Sultanship think he’s conferring an unprecedented honour on a poor woman?” “Oh, Edna!” His boyish face flushed suddenly. “You know what I mean. I never dreamed that a wonderful woman would ever dream of taking anything from my lips to hers. Look.” He lit another cigarette and held it out to her. “Let me have yours.” “Baby!” she said, making the exchange. All of which imbecility was very bad and sad and mad, but to the united youth in the punt it was peculiarly agreeable. “What a difference from last week-end,” she said, contentedly, after a while. “What happened then?” “I had all the stuff-boxes in London down, Edgar included.” “And my venerable sire. I remember. I was at the War Office all Sunday. And it poured with rain. What did you do with them?” “I stroked them and fed them and put them through their little tricks,” she laughed. Then she added more seriously, “It happened to be a very important day for your father. The Government has gone crazy on finding out new forceful men—and clearing out the incompetent political hacks. Edgar’s just hanging on by the skin of his teeth, you know. Well, they’ve discovered your remarkable father, and last week-end they practically fixed it up with him. A new Ministry of Propaganda. Oh!” she laughed again. “I didn’t have such a bad time after all. But”—she sighed—“this is better. Don’t let us think of wars or politics or Edgars and such horrible things.” She threw her cigarette into the water, and bent down to the basket. “Let us lunch.” It had been indeed an important day for Baltazar. The house near Moulsford, Lady Edna’s personal possession, a vast square, red-brick, late Georgian building, standing in grounds that reached down to the river, had been filled with anxiously chosen High and Mightinesses, among whom her husband, minister though he was, shone like an inferior satellite. It was the last move in the game on behalf of John Baltazar which she had played for many weeks. “What are you asking that damned fellow for?” Edgar Donnithorpe had asked, looking at the list of guests. “Because he amuses me.” “He doesn’t amuse me,” snapped her husband. He was a little thin man, with thin grey hair and a thin moustache and a thin voice. Up to a few months ago she had treated him with contemptuous tolerance. Now she had begun to dislike him exceedingly. “If you don’t want to meet Mr. Baltazar,” she replied, “you can stay in London.” They sparred in the unedifying manner of ill-assorted husband and wife. “I’m sick of seeing this overbearing adventurer in my house,” he said. “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean. I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself.” “My dear man,” she replied cuttingly, “if I were looking out for a lover, this time I should take a young one.”