"No use trying to find her, of course," he agreed, irritably, "but we'd
better talk things over with the governor."

"If I can be of any help..." I remarked elliptically.

"You won't be if you start that transcendental rot," he returned, as if he
already regretted his condescension.

"What sort of rot do you want me to talk?" I asked.

"Common sense," he said.

I resisted the desire to say that I was glad he acknowledged the Jervaise
version of common sense to be one kind of rot.

"All serene," I agreed.

He did not thank me.

And when I looked back on the happenings of the two hours that had elapsed
since Jervaise had fetched me out of the improvised buffet, I was still
greatly puzzled to account for his marked choice of me as a confidant. It
was a choice that seemed to signify some weakness in him. I wondered if he
had been afraid to trust himself alone with Anne at the Farm; if he were
now suffering some kind of trepidation at the thought of the coming
interview with his father? I found it so impossible to associate any idea
of weakness with that bullying mask which was the outward expression of
Frank Jervaise.