The Ways of the World Read Online Free PDF

bygone era: bow-tied, starch-collared, frock-coated and Edwardianly bewhiskered. But that, Max instantly sensed, was not the whole story. There was a sparkle in his pale-blue eyes, a warmth to his smile and something Max could only have described as a bounce in his bearing. He was not as stout as he had been either. He looked like a man with plenty on his mind, but uplifted because of it.
    Champagne was ordered and Max soon found himself infected with some of his father’s unwonted good cheer. They moved into the restaurant and were plied with fine food and wine by waiters gliding to and fro beneath glistening chandeliers. Max was persuaded to describe a few of his more hair-raising exploits with the RFC and to recount some of his experiences as a prisoner of war. Sir Henry could hardly be said to have had a quiet war himself. From his post at the British Embassy in St Petersburg, he had had a ringside seat during the upheavals of the Russian revolution. ‘They were dangerous days, my boy. I could easily have got in the way of a Bolshevik bullet if my luck had been out. Fortunately, the Ambassador took pity on the older members of staff and took us with him when he was evacuated. The people we left behind had a very rough time of it, I can tell you.’
    And what of his activities in Paris, which were evidently keeping him so busy? Officially, he explained, he was there to give advice to the leaders of the British delegation, as and when required, about the demands and expectations of the Brazilian delegation inrespect of German merchant ships held in Brazilian ports and cargoes of Brazilian coffee the Germans had never paid for. ‘It shouldn’t matter a damn to LG.’ (Sir Henry referred to the Prime Minister so casually Max assumed they were on familiar terms.) ‘But our American cousins want to be seen to be doing their continental neighbours a few favours, so we have to be on our guard. And fourteen years in Rio de Janeiro made me the closest to an expert the FO could find. Most of the time, though, I just make myself useful. And when that fails I try to enjoy myself. I always wanted a posting to the Paris embassy, but I never got it. This is the next best thing.’
    It was over Tokay and crêpes Suzette that Max finally unveiled his plans for a post-war career as a flying instructor. By then he was optimistic that his father would give him the use of the land he needed at Gresscombe. And his optimism was not misplaced. ‘You shall have it, James, you shall indeed. I’ll write to Ashley and have him tell Barratt to grub up whatever miserable crop he’s planted and make way for you. It’s the least I can do – the least
he
can do – after what you flyers endured in the service of your country.’
    The discussion could hardly have gone better. And in the circumstances it seemed fitting to return to the bar after their meal to toast Max’s airborne future with the Ritz’s finest cognac. It was there that the evening took a faintly puzzling turn, when a man detached himself from a party in the farthest corner of the room and came across to greet Sir Henry as a close, if not necessarily cordial, acquaintance.
    He was tall, lean and slightly crooked in his posture, immaculately dressed and groomed, but with rugged features bordering on rough and a scar, partially concealed by a pencil moustache, that distorted his left nostril. He had dark, wary eyes and a fine head of grey-flecked hair. He was not the sort of man it was easy to place at a glance, either as to nationality or profession, although, as soon as he spoke, it was obvious he was an American.
    ‘Good to see you, Henry,’ he drawled. ‘Who’s your young friend?’
    ‘My son, James. James, this is Travis Ireton.’
    Max rose to shake Ireton’s hand. His grip was firm and cool, hisgaze likewise. Max had the disquieting impression that he was being treated to swift but skilful scrutiny.
    ‘Are you with the US delegation, Mr Ireton?’
    ‘Sometimes. With