So this was the man! Mr. Sabin did not neglect his luncheon, nor was he ever for a moment unmindful of the grey-headed princess who chatted away by his side with all the vivacity of her race and sex.
But he watched Mr. Brott.
A man this! Mr. Sabin was a judge, and he appraised him rightly.
He saw through that courteous geniality of tone and gesture; the ready-made smile, although it seemed natural enough, did not deceive him. Underneath was a man of iron, square-jawed, nervous, forceful. Mr. Brott was probably at that time the ablest politician of either party in the country. Mr. Sabin knew it.
He found himself wondering exactly at what point of their lives this man and he would come into contact.
After luncheon Helene brought them together.
"I believe," she said to Mr. Brott, "that you have never met my UNCLE. May I make you formally acquainted? UNCLE, this is Mr.
Brott, whom you must know a great deal about even though you have been away for so long - the Duc de Souspennier."
The two men bowed and Helene passed on. Mr. Sabin leaned upon his stick and watched keenly for any sign in the other's face. If he expected to find it he was disappointed. Either this man had no knowledge of who he was, or those things which were to come between them were as yet unborn.
They strolled together after the other guests into the winter gardens, which were the envy of every hostess in London. Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette, Mr. Brott regretfully declined. He neither smoked nor drank wine. Yet he was disposed to be friendly, and selected a seat where they were a little apart from the other guests.
"You at least," he remarked, in answer to an observation of Mr.
Sabin's, "are free from the tyranny of politics. I am assuming, of course, that your country under its present form of government has lost its hold upon you."
Mr. Sabin smiled.
"It is a doubtful boon," he said. "It is true that I am practically an exile. Republican France has no need of me. Had I been a soldier I could still have remained a patriot. But for one whose leanings were towards politics, neither my father before me nor I could be of service to our country. You should be thankful," he continued with a slight smile, "that you are an Englishman. No constitution in the world can offer so much to the politician who is strong enough and fearless enough."
Mr. Brott glanced towards his twinkling eyes.
"Do you happen to know what my politics are?" he asked.
Mr. Sabin hesitated.
"Your views, I know, are advanced," he said. "For the rest I have been abroad for years. I have lost touch a little with affairs in this country."
"I am afraid," Mr. Brott said, "that I shall shock you. You are an aristocrat of the aristocrats, I a democrat of the democrats.
The people are the only masters whom I own. They first sent me to Parliament."
"Yet," Mr. Sabin remarked, "you are, I understand, in the Cabinet."
Mr. Brott glanced for a moment around. The Prime Minister was somewhere in the winter gardens.
"That," he declared, "is an accident. I happened to be the only man available who could do the work when Lord Kilbrooke died. I am telling you only what is an open secret. But I am afraid I am boring you. Shall we join the others?"
"Not unless you yourself are anxious to," Mr. Sabin begged. "It is scarcely fair to detain you talking to an old man when there are so many charming women here. But I should be sorry for you to think me hidebound in my prejudices. You must remember that the Revolution decimated my family. It was a long time ago, but the horror of it is still a live thing."
"Yet it was the natural outcome," Mr. Brott said, "of the things which went before. Such hideous misgovernment as generations of your countrymen had suffered was logically bound to bring its own reprisal."
"There is truth in what you say," Mr. Sabin admitted. He did not want to talk about the French Revolution.
"You are a stranger in London, are you not?" Mr. Brott asked.
"I feel myself one," Mr. Sabin answered. "I have been away for a few years, and I do not think that there is a city in the world where social changes are so rapid. I should perhaps except the cities of the country from which I have come. But then America is a universe of itself."
For an instant Mr. Brott gave signs of the man underneath. The air of polite interest had left his face. He glanced swiftly and keenly at his companion. Mr. Sabin's expression was immutable. It was he who scored, for he marked the change, whilst Mr. Brott could not be sure whether he had noticed it or not.
"You have been living in America, then?"
"For several years - yes."
"It is a country," Mr. Brott said, "which I am particularly anxious to visit. I see my chances, however, grow fewer and fewer as the years go by."
"For one like yourself," Mr. Sabin said, "whose instincts and sympathies are wholly with the democracy, a few months in America would be very well spent."
"And you," Mr. Brott remarked, "how did you get on with the people?"
Mr. Sabin traced a pattern with his stick upon the marble floor.
"I lived in the country," he said, "I played golf and read and rested."
"Were you anywhere near New York?" Mr. Brott asked.
"A few hours' journey only," Mr. Sabin answered. "My home was in a very picturesque part, near Lenox."
Mr. Brott leaned a little forward.
"You perhaps know then a lady who spent some time in that neighbourhood - a Mrs. James Peterson. Her husband was, I believe, the American consul in Vienna.
