Free Murder on the Mauretania by Conrad Allen Page B

beastly.”
    “Beastly, but essential,” Denning argued.
    “Congratulations, Harvey,” teased Ruth. “Your first sensible comment today.”
    “And your first pleasant remark to me, my darling,” he countered. “But you’re all way off the mark. My guess is that Genevieve’s new friend is a newspaper tycoon.” He smiled at her. “Am I right?”
    “Not exactly,” she replied.
    “Then what is he? A politician? He looks wily enough.”
    “Politicians are not wily,” said Theodora with a protective hand on her husband’s arm. “Donald is going into Parliament one day. Nobody would call him wily.”
    “Certainly not!” murmured Ruth.
    “Donald is a man of real integrity.”
    “Let’s put the dazzling career of Donald Augustus Belfrage, M.P., aside for a moment,” Denning interrupted. “I want to hear about the mysterious Mr. Delaney. Tell us the truth, Genevieve. What is he?”
    “A timber merchant,” she explained. “At least he was.”
    Susan was horrified. “A lumberjack!” she exclaimed.
    “Far from it, Susan. He inherited thousands of acres of forest.”
    “And made his living by chopping down trees.”
    “Mr. Delaney didn’t need to swing an ax. He could employ others to do that for him. His real interest is in literature,” she continued. “He’s a very cultured man.”
    “Yes,” said Denning with light sarcasm. “I can just see him, trapped in some remote lumber camp, reeking of stale perspiration after a day of sawing up logs and reading Bret Harte by the light of the fire.”
    “O. Henry is his favorite, actually.”
    “Who?” asked Theodora.
    “An American writer,” explained Genevieve.
    “Well, I’ve never heard of him,” said the other as if that were the sole criterion of literary excellence. “Have you, Donald?”
    “Of course not,” replied her husband. “Why are we talking about Americans anyway?” He brought a fist down on the table. “We’re British through and through and we should be proud of the fact!”
    “You should work that sentence into your political speeches,” said Denning waspishly. “It has such a ring of originality.”
    “Why are you being so cruel to Donald?” asked Theodora, flapping a hand at Harvey. “You and Ruth are doing it all the time.”
    “Only because we love him,” said Denning with a conciliatory smile.
    “They’re jealous of him, Theo,” confided Susan, “that’s all. Everyone is. I mean, he’s got everything. A beautiful home, a happy marriage, a glittering career ahead. That’s my definition of perfection. What more does he need?”
    “A brain?” muttered Ruth under her breath.
    Donald Belfrage was saved from any further sniping by the arrival of the guests who were obliged to share their table. The waiter escorted them to their seats, and the four newcomers exchanged a flurry of nods with the incumbent diners. The two couples who settled down at the other end of the table were middle-aged, patently English, andendearingly old-fashioned. Indeed, one of the husbands, a tall man with muttonchop whiskers and a rubicund complexion, wore the attire and manner of a mid-Victorian
pater familias
. Their presence imposed a restraint and formality on the proceedings. Harvey Denning acted as an interlocutor between the two parties, but it was Genevieve who profited most. Sitting alongside the Victorian gentleman, she engaged him and his wife in conversation and was amazed to learn how progressive some of their ideas were. They had sent their son to be educated at Harvard, and since he had married and settled down in Albany, New York, they were now planning to visit him with their friends for an extended vacation.
    A general discussion began on the relative merits of English and American universities, and Donald Belfrage rid himself cheerfully of his worst prejudices before telling the newcomers about his moment of triumph in the Boat Race. Pleased to widen her circle of acquaintances, Genevieve nevertheless kept one eye