personality. Lord Caterham admitted that she had made Henry an admirable wife and that but for her in all probability he would never have held the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. On the other hand, he had always looked upon Henry’s death as a merciful release.
It seemed to him that Bundle was foolishly putting her head into the lion’s mouth.
“Oh! I say,” he said. “You know, I shouldn’t do that. You don’t know what it may lead to.”
“I know what I hope it’s going to lead to,” said Bundle. “I’m all right, Father, don’t you worry about me.”
Lord Caterham sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He went back to his perusal of the Field. But in a minute or two Bundle suddenly put her head in again.
“Sorry,” she said. “But there’s one other thing I wanted to ask you. What is Sir Oswald Coote?”
“I told you—a steamroller.”
“I don’t mean your personal impression of him. How did he make his money—trouser buttons or brass beds or what?”
“Oh, I see. He’s steel. Steel and iron. He’s got the biggest steel works, or whatever you call it, in England. He doesn’t, of course, run the show personally now. It’s a company or companies. He got me in as a director of something or other. Very good business for me—nothing to do except go down to the city once or twice a year to one of those hotel places—Cannon Street or Liverpool Street—and sit round a table where they have very nice new blotting paper. Then Coote or some clever Johnny makes a speech simply bristling with figures, but fortunately you needn’t listen to it—and I can tell you, you often get a jolly good lunch out of it.”