"Suppose it were known? I know it is a silly world,—but the news would be all over the country in two days. And look at this?"
With one hand he unfurled the chief page of a popular morning daily, and Mr. Roland was able to read the headlines at a distance of five yards:
The world's lovers married.
Great scenes.
Where have Ethel and Duck gone for their honeymoon?
Roland rubbed his deliberate chin.
"Yes, quite so, Stephen," he said; "I see the idea. I suppose a million or two people are interested in this honeymoon. The mysterious and romantic disappearance of the World's Lovers! But it can't be done."
"But what a chance!"
"I know. I suppose we shall never have such another chance of getting the old Pelican up in the sky like a Daily Mail smoke advertisement,—but it can't be done."
"Not if—I did it?"
"Stephen, you Jesuitical rogue! No, I promised Scott, to keep quiet. He's a very decent little chap. I had dinner with them."
"I see"
"They asked me. They have a sense of fun. I enjoyed my dinner. And Mrs. Scott has a nice taste in music. We had our coffee down here, and she played Debussy to us. You see?"
Sorrell folded up his sheet of paper.
"It's a pity,—but you are quite right, sir. How long are they staying?"
"A week."
"Well,—towards the end of the week there wouldn't be any harm in getting a local photographer to take a few snapshots. Besides,—I happen to know the reporter who sends up any local news to the Daily Sun. it would be a magnificent coup for him, and for us"
Roland looked up at him with droll and ironical gravity.
"The man of ideas! You ought to be a publicity agent, Stephen. But it is worth considering. I can't see how it can hurt anybody. Wait,—I'll go up and ask them."
