"And with the Japanese?"
"And with the Japanese."
Atherton frowned at the glowing end of his cigar.
"Nina and I ran down to see Craven Towers when we were on our wedding trip in England last year," he said at length with seeming irrelevance. "Your agent, Mr. Peters, ran us round."
"Good old Peters," murmured Craven lazily. "The place would have gone to the bow-wows long ago if it hadn't been for him. He adored my mother and has the worst possible opinion of me. But he's a loyal old bird, he probably endowed me with all the virtues for your benefit."
But Atherton ignored the comment. He polished his eyeglass vigorously and screwed it firmly into position.
"If I was an Englishman with a place like Craven Towers that had been in my family for generations," he said soberly, "I should go home and marry a nice girl and settle down on my estate."
"That's precisely Peters' opinion," replied Craven promptly with a good-tempered laugh. "I get reams from him to that effect nearly every mail--with detailed descriptions of all the eligible debutantes whom he thinks suitable. I often wonder whether he runs the estate on the same lines and keeps a matrimonial agency for the tenants."
Atherton laughed with him but persisted.
"If your own countrywomen don't appeal to you, take a run out to the States and see what we can do for you."
The laugh died out of Craven's eyes and he moved restlessly in his chair.
"It's no good, Jermyn. I'm not a marrying man," he said shortly.
Atherton smiled grimly at the recollection of a similar remark emphatically uttered by himself at their last meeting.
For a time neither spoke. Each was conscious of a vague difference in the other, developed during the years that had elapsed since their last meeting--an intangible barrier checking the open confidence of earlier days.
It was growing late. The sampans had nearly all disappeared and only an occasional launch skimmed across the harbour.
A neighbouring yacht's band that had been silent for the last hour began to play again--appropriately to the vicinity--Puccini's well-known opera. The strains came subdued but clear across the water on the scent-laden air. Craven sat forward in his chair, his heels on the ground, his hands loosely clasped between his knees, whistling softly the Consul's solo in the first act. From behind a cloud of cigar smoke Atherton watched him keenly, and as he watched he was thinking rapidly. He was used to making decisions quickly--he was accustomed to accepting risks at which others shied, but the risk he was now contemplating meant the taking of an unwarranted liberty that might be resented and might result in the loss of a friendship that he valued. But he was going to take the risk--as he had taken many another--he had known that from the first. He screwed his eyeglass firmer into his eye, a characteristic gesture well-known on the New York stock market.