I AM INVITED OUT TO DINNER
I sometimes wonder what would happen if I really had a mind of my own.
Would I be content to exercise it capably? Would I cease to be putty
in the hands of other people? I doubt it. Even a strong, obdurate mind
is liable to connect with conditions that render it weak and pliable
for the simple reason that it is sometimes easier to put up with a
thing than to try to put it down. An exacting, arbitrary mind perhaps
might evolve a set of resolutions that even the most intolerant would
hesitate to violate, but for an easygoing, trouble-dodging brain like
my own there is no such thing as tenacity of purpose, unless it be in
the direction of an obfuscated tendency to maintain its own pitiful
equilibrium. I try to keep an even ballast in my dome of thought and
to steer straight through the sea of circumstance, a very difficult
undertaking and sometimes hazardous.
A man with a firm, resolute grip on himself would have checked Mr.
Pless and Baron Umovitch at the outset of their campaign to acquire
undisputed possession of _all_ the comforts and conveniences that the
castle afforded.
He would have said no to their demands that all work about the place
should be regulated according to their own life-long habits, which,
among other things, included lying in bed till noon, going back to bed
at three for a quiet nap, and staying up all night so that they might
be adequately worn out by the time they went to bed in the first place.
I mention this as a single instance of their power to over-ride me.
It got to be so that when a carpenter wanted to drive a nail he had
to substitute a screw and use a screw-driver, a noiseless process but
an insufferable waste of time and money. Lathers worked four days on
a job that should have been accomplished in as many hours. Can you
imagine these expert, able-bodied men putting laths on a wall with
screw-drivers?
When Elsie Hazzard, painfully aware of my annoyance, asked the two
noblemen why on earth they couldn't get up for breakfast, they coldly
informed her that they were civilised human beings and not larks.
They used my study for purposes of their own, and glared at me when
I presumed to intrude upon their privacy. Mr. Pless took possession
of this room, and here received all sorts of secret operatives engaged
in the task of unearthing the former Mrs. Pless. Here he had as many
as fifteen reports a day by messenger from all parts of the land and
here he discussed every new feature of the chase as it presented itself,
coolly barring me out of my sanctum sanctorum with the impassive command
to knock before attempting to enter.
In spite of their acrimonious tilts over the card table, he and the
baron were as thick as could be when it came to the question of the
derelict countess. They maintained the strictest privacy and resented
even the polite interest of their four American friends.
Finding Mr. Poopendyke at work over some typing one day, Mr. Pless
peremptorily ordered him out of the study and subsequently complained
to me about the infernal racket the fellow made with his typewriter.
Just as I was on the point of telling him to go to the devil, he
smilingly called my attention to a complete plan for the restoration
of the two great halls as he had worked it out on paper. He had also
written a personal letter, commanding the Munich firm to send their
most competent expert to Schloss Rothhoefen without delay, to go over
the plans with him. As I recall it, he merely referred to me as a rich
American who needed advice.
They cursed my servants, drank my wines, complained of the food, and
had everybody about the place doing errands for them. My butler and
footman threatened to leave if they were compelled to continue to serve
drinks until four in the morning; but were somewhat appeased when I
raised their wages. Britton surreptitiously thrashed the French valet,
and then had to serve Mr. Pless (to my despair) for two days while
Francois took his time recovering.
The motor boat was operated as a ferry after the third day, hustling
detectives, lawyers, messengers and newspaper correspondents back and
forth across the much be-sung Danube. Time and again I shivered in my
boots when these sly-faced detectives appeared and made their reports
behind closed doors. When would they strike the trail?
To my surprise the Hazzards and the Smiths were as much in the dark
as I concerning development in the great kidnapping case. The wily Mr.
Pless suddenly ceased delivering his confidences to outsiders. Evidently
he had been cautioned by those in charge of his affairs. He became as
uncommunicative as the Sphinx.
I had the somewhat valueless satisfaction of knowing a blessed sight
more about the matter than he and all of his bloodhounds put together.
I could well afford to laugh, but under the extremely harassing
conditions it was far from possible for me to get fat. As a matter of
fact, it seemed to me that I was growing thinner. Mrs. Betty Billy
Smith, toward the end of her visit, dolefully--almost
tearfully--remarked upon my haggard appearance. She was very nice
about it, too. I liked her immensely.
It did not require half an eye to see that she was thoroughly sick of
the baron and Mr. Pless. She was really quite uncivil to them toward
the end.
At last there came a day of deliverance. The guests were departing and
I can truthfully say that I was speeding them.
Elsie Hazzard took me off to a remote corner, where a little later on
Betty Billy and the two husbands found us.
"John, will you ever forgive me?" she said very soberly. "I swear to
you I hadn't the faintest idea what it--"
"Please, please, Elsie," I broke in warmly; "don't abuse yourself in
my presence. I fully understand everything. At least, _nearly_
everything. What I can't understand, for the life of me, is this: how
did you happen to pick up two such consummate bounders as these fellows
are?"
"Alas, John," said she, shaking her head, "a woman never knows much
about a man until she has lived a week in the same house with him. Now
_you_ are a perfect angel."
"You've always said that," said I. "You did not have to live in the
same house with me to find it out, did you?"
She ignored the question. "I shall never, never forgive myself for
this awful week, John. We've talked it all over among ourselves. We
are ashamed--oh, so terribly ashamed. If you can ever like us again
after--"
"Like you!" I cried, taking her by the shoulders. "Why, Elsie Hazzard,
I have never liked you and George half so much as I like you now. You
two and the Smiths stand out like Gibraltars in my esteem. I adore all
of you. I sha'n't be happy again until I know that you four--and no
more--are coming back to Schloss Rothhoefen for an indefinite stay.
Good Lord, how happy we shall be!"
I said it with a great deal of feeling. The tears rushed into her eyes.
"You _are_ a dear, John," she sighed.
"You'll come?"
"In a minute," said she with vehemence, a genuine American girl once
more.
"Just as soon as these pesky workmen are out of the place, I'll drop
you a line," said I, immeasurably exalted. "But I draw the line at
noblemen."
"Don't worry," she said, setting her nice little white teeth. "I draw
it too. Never again! _Never_!"
It occurred to me that here was an excellent opening for a bit of
missionary work. Very pointedly I said to her: "I fancy you are willing
to admit now that she wasn't such a simpleton for leaving him."
She went so far as to shudder, all the time regarding me with dilated
eyes. "I can't imagine anything more dreadful than being that man's
wife, John."
"Then why won't you admit that you are sorry for her? Why won't you
be a little just to her?"
She looked at me sharply. "Do you know her?"
"Not by a long shot," I replied hastily, and with considerable
truthfulness.
"Why are you so keen to have me take sides with her?"
"Because I did, the instant I saw that infernal cad."
She pursed her lips. It was hard for her to surrender.
"Out with it, Elsie," I commanded. "You know you've been wrong about
that poor little girl. I can tell by the look in your eyes that you
have switched over completely in the last four days, and so has Betty
Billy."
"I can't forgive her for marrying him in the first place," she said
stubbornly. "But I think she was justified in leaving him. As I know
him now, I don't see how she endured it as long as she did. Yes, I am
sorry for her. She is a dear girl and she has had a--a--"
"I'll say it, my dear: a hell of a time."
"Thank you." "And I daresay you now think she did right in taking the
child, too," I persisted.
"I--I hope she gets safely away with little Rosemary, back to God's
country as we are prone to call it. Oh, by the way, John, I don't see
why I should feel bound to keep that wretch's secret any longer. He
has treated us like dogs. He doesn't deserve--"
"Hold on! You're not thinking of telling me his name, are you?"
"Don't you want to know it? Don't you care to hear that you've been
entertaining the most talked of, the most interesting--"
"No, I don't!"
"Don't you care to hear who it was that he married and how many millions
he got from--"
"No, I don't."
"And why not?"
"Well," said I, judicially, "in the first place I like the mystery of
it all. In the second place, I don't want to know anything more about
this fellow than I already know. He is enough of a horror to me, as
it is, God knows, without giving a name to him. I prefer to think of
him as Mr. Pless. If you don't mind, Elsie, I'll try to eradicate him
thoroughly from my system as Pless before I take him on in any other
form of evil. No, I don't want to know his name at present, nor do I
care a hang who it was he married. Silly notion, I suppose, but I mean
what I say."
She looked at me in wonder for a moment and then shook her head as if
considering me quite hopeless. "You are an odd thing, John. God left
something out when He fashioned you. I'm just dying to tell you all
about them, and you won't let me."
"Is she pretty?" I asked, yielding a little.
"She is lovely. We've been really quite hateful about her, Betty and
I. Down in our hearts we like her. She was a spoiled child, of course,
and all that sort of thing, but heaven knows she's been pretty
thoroughly made over in a new crucible. We used to feel terribly sorry
for her, even while we were deriding her for the fool she had made of
herself in marrying him. I've seen her hundreds of times driving about
alone in Vienna, where they spent two winters, a really pathetic figure,
scorned not only by her husband but by every one else. He never was
to be seen in public with her. He made it clear to his world that she
was not to be inflicted upon it by any unnecessary act of his. She
came to see Betty and me occasionally; always bright and proud and
full of spirit, but we could see the wounds in her poor little heart
no matter how hard she tried to hide them. I tell you, John, they like
us as women but they despise us as wives. It will always be the same
with them. They won't let us into their charmed circle. Thank God, I
am married to an American. He _must_ respect me whether he wants to or
not."
"Poor little beggar," said I, without thinking of how it would sound
to her; "she has had her fling, and she has paid well for it."
"If her stingy old father, who permitted her to get into the scrape,
would come up like a man and pay what he ought to pay, there would be
no more pother about this business. He hasn't lived up to his bargain.
The--Mr. Pless has squandered the first million and now he wants the
balance due him. A trade's a trade, John. The old man ought to pay up.
He went into it with his eyes open, and I haven't an atom of sympathy
for him. You have read that book of Mrs. O'Burnett's, haven't you?--'The
Shuttle'? Well, there you are. This is but another example of what
fools American parents can be when they get bees in their bonnets."
She seemed to be accusing me!
"I hope she gets away safely with the kiddie," said I, non-committally.
"Heaven knows where she is. Maybe she's as safe as a bug in a rug."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said I.
The Billy Smiths and George Hazzard came up at this juncture. Elsie
at once proceeded to go into a long series of conjectures as to the
probable whereabouts of Mr. Pless's former wife and their child. I was
immensely gratified to find that they were now undivided in their
estimate of Mr. Pless and firmly allied on the side of the missing
countess.
I gathered from their remarks that the young woman's mother and brothers
were still in Paris, where their every movement was being watched by
secret agents. They were awaiting the arrival from New York of the
father of the countess, after which they were to come to Vienna for
the purpose of making a determined fight for the daughter's absolute
freedom and the custody of the child.
Somehow this news gave me a strange feeling of apprehension, a sensation
that later on was to be amply justified.
I daresay an historian less punctilious about the truth than I propose
to be, would, at this stage of the narrative, insert a whopping lie
for the sake of effect, or "action," or "heart interest," as such
things are called in the present world of letters. He would enliven
his tale by making Mr. Pless do something sensational while he was
about it, such as yanking his erstwhile companion out of her place of
hiding by the hair of her head, or kicking down all the barricades
about the place, or fighting a duel with me, or--well, there is no end
of things he might do for the sake of a "situation." But I am a person
of veracity and the truth _is_ in me. Mr. Pless did none of these
interesting things, so why should I say that he did?
He went away with the others at half-past eleven, and that was the end
of his first visit to my domain. For fear that you, kind reader, may
be disappointed, I make haste to assure you that he was to come again.
Of course there was more or less turmoil and--I might say
disaffection--attending his departure. He raised Cain with my servants
because they did this and that when they shouldn't have done either;
he (and the amiable baron) took me to task for having neglected to
book compartments for them in the Orient Express; he insisted upon
having a luncheon put up in a tea basket and taken to the railway
station by Britton, and he saw to it personally that three or four
bottles of my best wine were neatly packed in with the rest. He
_said_ three or four, but Britton is firm in his belief that there
was nearer a dozen, judging by the weight.
He also contrived to have Mr. Poopendyke purchase first-class railway
tickets for him and the baron, and then forgot to settle for them. It
amounted to something like four hundred and fifty kronen, if I remember
correctly. He took away eleven hundred and sixty-five dollars of my
money, besides, genially acquired at roulette, and I dread to think
of what he and the baron took out of my four friends at auction bridge.
I will say this for him: he was the smartest aristocrat I've ever
known.
Need I add that the Hazzards and the Smiths travelled second-class?
"Well, thank the Lord!" said I, as the ferry put off with the party,
leaving me alone on the little landing. The rotten timbers seemed to
echo the sentiment. At the top of the steep all the Schmicks were
saying it, too; in the butler's pantry it was also being said; a score
of workmen were grunting it; and the windlass that drew me up the hill
was screaming it in wild, discordant glee. I repeated it once more
when Britton returned from town and assured me that they had not missed
the train.
"That's what I'd like to say, sir," said he.
"Well, say it," said I. And he said it so vociferously that I know it
must have been heard in the remotest corners of heaven.
The merry song of the hammer and the sweet rasp of the saw greeted my
delighted ear as I entered the castle. Men were singing and whistling
for all they were worth; the air was full of music. It was not unlike
the grand transformation scene in the pantomime when all that has been
gloom and despondency gives way in the flash of an eye to elysian
splendour and dazzling gaiety. 'Pon my soul, I never felt so exuberant
in all my life. The once nerve-racking clangour was like the soothing
strains of an invisible orchestra to my delighted senses. Ha! Ha! What
a merry old world it is, after all!
Nearing my study, I heard an almost forgotten noise: the blithe,
incessant crackle of a typewriting machine. Never have I heard one
rattle so rapidly or with such utter garrulousness.
I looked in at the door. Over in his corner by the window Poopendyke
was at work, his lanky figure hunched over the key-board, his head
enveloped in clouds from a busy pipe, for all the world like a tugboat
smothering in its own low-lying smoke. Sheets of paper were strewn
about the floor. Even as I stood there hesitating, he came to the end
of a sheet and jerked it out of the machine with such a resounding
snap that the noise startled me. He was having the time of his life!
I stole away, unwilling to break in upon this joyful orgy.
Conrad, grinning from ear to ear, was waiting for me outside my bedroom
door late in the day. He saluted me with unusual cordiality.
"A note, mein herr," said he, and handed me a dainty little pearl-grey
envelope. He waited while I read the missive.
"I sha'n't be home for dinner, Conrad," said I, my eyes aglow. "Tell
Hawkes, will you?"
He bowed and scraped himself away; somehow he seemed to have grown
younger by decades. It was in the air to be young and care-free. I
read the note again and felt almost boyish. Then I went up to my room,
got out my gayest raiment without shame or compunction, dressed with
especial regard for lively effects, and hied me forth to carry sunshine
into the uttermost recesses of my castle.
The Countess welcomed me with a radiant smile. We shook hands.
"Well, he has gone," said I, drawing a deep breath.
"Thank the Lord," said she, and then I knew that the symphony was
complete. We all had sung it.
It must not be supposed for an instant that I had been guilty of
neglecting my lovely charge during that season of travail and despair.
No, indeed! I had visited her every day as a matter of precaution. She
required a certain amount of watching.
I do not hesitate to say at this time that she seemed to be growing
lovelier every day. In a hundred little ways she was changing, not
only in appearance but in manner.
Now, to be perfectly frank about it, I can't explain just what these
little changes were--that is, not in so many words--but they were quite
as pronounced as they were subtle. I may risk mentioning an improvement
in her method of handling me. She was not taking quite so much for
granted as she did at first. She was much more humble and considerate,
I remarked; instead of bullying me into things she now cajoled me;
instead of making demands upon my patience and generosity, she rather
hesitated about putting me to the least trouble. She wasn't so arrogant,
nor so hard to manage. In a nutshell, I may say with some satisfaction,
she was beginning to show a surprising amount of respect for me and
my opinions. Where once she had done as she pleased, she now did so
only after asking my advice and permission, both of which I gave freely
as a gentleman should. Fundamentally she was all right. It was only
in a superficial sort of way that she fell short of being ideal. She
really possessed a very sweet, lovely nature. I thought I could see
the making of a very fine woman in her.
I do not say that she was perfect or ever could be, but she might come
very close to it if she went on improving as she did every day. As a
matter of fact, I found an immense amount of analytical pleasure in
studying the changes that attended the metamorphosis. It seemed to my
eager imagination that she was being translated before my eyes;
developing into a serious, sensible, unselfish person with a soul
preparing to mount higher than self. Her voice seemed to be softer,
sweeter; the satirical note had disappeared almost entirely, and with
it went the forced raillery that had been so pronounced at the beginning
of our acquaintance.
Her devotion to Rosemary was wonderful to see. By the way, while I
think of it, the child was quite adorable. She was learning to pronounce
my name, and getting nearer and nearer to it every day. At the time
of which I now write she was calling me (with great enthusiasm), by
the name of "Go-go," which, reduced to aboriginal American, means
"Man-with-the-Strong-Arm-Who-Carries-Baby."
"It is very nice of you to ask me up to dine with you," said I.
"Isn't it about time I was doing something for you in return for all
that you have done for me?" she inquired gaily. "We are having a
particularly nice dinner this evening, and I thought you'd enjoy a
change."
"A change?" said I, with a laugh. "As if we haven't been eating out
of the same kettle for days!"
"I was not referring to the food," she said, and I was very properly
squelched.
"Nevertheless, speaking of food," said I, "it may interest you to know
that I expected to have rather a sumptuous repast of my own to celebrate
the deliverance. A fine plump pheasant, prepared a la Oscar, corn
fritters like mother used to make, potatoes picard,--"
"And a wonderful alligator pear salad," she interrupted, her eyes
dancing.
I stared. "How in the world did you guess?"
She laughed in pure delight, and I began to understand. By the Lord
Harry, the amazing creature was inviting me to eat my own dinner in
her _salle manger!_ "Well, may I be hanged! You do beat the Dutch!"
She was wearing a wonderful dinner gown of Irish lace, and she fairly
sparkled with diamonds. There was no ornament in her brown hair,
however, nor were her little pink ears made hideous by ear-rings. Her
face was a jewel sufficient unto itself. I had never seen her in an
evening gown before. The effect was really quite ravishing. As I looked
at her standing there by the big oak table, I couldn't help thinking
that the Count was not only a scoundrel but all kinds of a fool.
"It was necessary for me to bribe all of your servants, Mr. Smart,"
she said.
"You did not offer the rascals money, I hope," I said in a horrified
tone.
"No, indeed!" She did not explain any farther than that, but somehow
I knew that money isn't everything to a servant after all. "I hope you
don't mind my borrowing your butler and footman for the evening," she
went on. "Not that we really need two to serve two, but it seems so
much more like a function, as the newspapers would call it."
It was my turn to say "No, indeed."
"And now you must come in and kiss Rosemary good night," she said,
glancing at my great Amsterdam clock in the corner.
We went into the nursery. It was past Rosemary's bedtime by nearly an
hour and the youngster was having great difficulty in keeping awake.
She managed to put her arms around my neck when I took her up from the
bed, all tucked away in her warm little nightie, and sleepily presented
her own little throat for me to kiss, that particular spot being where
the honey came from in her dispensation of sweets.
I was full of exuberance. An irresistible impulse to do a jig seized
upon me. To my own intense amazement, and to Blake's horror, I began
to dance about the room like a clumsy kangaroo. Rosemary shrieked
delightedly into my ear and I danced the harder for that. The Countess,
recovering from her surprise, cried out in laughter and began to clap
time with her hands. Blake forgot herself and sat down rather heavily
on the edge of the bed. I think the poor woman's knees gave way under
her.
"Hurrah!" I shouted to Rosemary, but looking directly at the Countess.
"We're celebrating!"
Whereupon the girl that was left in the Countess rose to the occasion
and she pirouetted with graceful abandon before me, in amazing contrast
to my jumping-jack efforts. Only Blake's reserved and somewhat dampening
admonition brought me to my senses.
"Please don't drop the child, Mr. Smart," she said. I had the great
satisfaction of hearing Rosemary cry when I delivered her up to Blake
and started to slink out of the room in the wake of my warm-cheeked
hostess. "You would be a wonderful father, sir," said Blake, relenting
a little.
I had the grace to say, "Oh, pshaw!" and then got out while the illusion
was still alive. (As I've said before, I do not like a crying baby.)
It was the most wonderful dinner in the world, notwithstanding it was
served on a kitchen table moved into the living room for the occasion.
Imposing candelabra adorned the four corners of the table and the very
best plate in the castle was put to use. There were roses in the centre
of the board, a huge bowl of short-stemmed Marechal Niel beauties. The
Countess's chair was pulled out by my stately butler, Hawkes; mine by
the almost equally imposing footman, and we faced each other across
the bowl of roses and lifted an American cocktail to the health of
those who were about to sit down to the feast. I think it was one of
the best cocktails I've ever tasted. The Countess admitted having made
it herself, but wasn't quite sure whether she used the right ingredients
or the correct proportions. She asked me what I thought of it.
"It is the best Manhattan I've ever tasted," said I, warmly.
Her eyes wavered. Also, I think, her faith in me. "It was meant to be
a Martini," she said sorrowfully.
Then we both sat down. Was it possible that the corners of Hawkes'
mouth twitched? I don't suppose I shall ever know.
My sherry was much better than I thought, too. It was deliciously oily.
The champagne? But that came later, so why anticipate a joy with
realisation staring one in the face?
We began with a marvellous hors-d'oeuvres. Then a clear soup, a fish
aspec, a--Why rhapsodise? Let it be sufficient if I say that in
discussing the Aladdin-like feast I secretly and faithfully promised
my chef a material increase in wages. I had never suspected him of
being such a genius, nor myself of being such a Pantegruelian disciple.
I must mention the alligator pear salad. For three weeks I had been
trying to buy alligator pears in the town hard by. These came from
Paris. The chef had spoken to me about them that morning, asking me
when I had ordered them. Inasmuch as I had not ordered them at all,
I couldn't satisfy his curiosity. My first thought was that Elsie
Hazzard, remembering my fondness for the vegetable--it is a vegetable,
isn't it?--had sent off for them in order to surprise me. It seems,
however, that Elsie had nothing whatever to do with it. The Countess
had ordered them for me through her mother, who was in Paris at the
time. Also she had ordered a quantity of Parisian strawberries of the
hot-house, one-franc-apiece variety, and a basket of peaches. At the
risk of being called penurious, I confess that I was immensely relieved
when I learned that these precious jewels in the shape of fruit had
been paid for in advance by the opulent mother of the Countess.
"Have I told you, Mr. Smart, that I am expecting my mother here to
visit me week after next?"
She tactfully put the question to me at a time when I was so full of
contentment that nothing could have depressed me. I must confess,
however, that I was guilty of gulping my champagne a little noisily.
The question came with the salad course.
"You don't say so!" I exclaimed, quite cheerfully.
"That is to say, she is coming if you think you can manage it quite
safely."
"I manage it? My dear Countess, why speak of managing a thing that is
so obviously to be desired?"
"You don't understand. Can you smuggle her into the castle without any
one knowing a thing about it? You see, she is being watched every
minute of the time by detectives, spies, secret agents, lawyers, and
Heaven knows who else. The instant she leaves Paris, bang! It will be
like the starter's shot in a race. They will be after her like a streak.
And if you are not very, very clever they will play hob with
everything."
"Then why run the risk?" I ventured.
"My two brothers are coming with her," she said reassuringly. "They
are such big, strong fellows that--"
"My dear Countess, it isn't strength we'll need," I deplored.
"No, no, I quite understand. It is cunning, strategy, caution, and all
that sort of thing. But I will let you know in ample time, so that you
may be prepared."
"Do!" I said gallantly, trying to be enthusiastic.
"You are so wonderfully ingenious at working out plots and conspiracies
in your books, Mr. Smart, that I am confident you can manage everything
beautifully."
Blatchford was removing my salad plate. A spasm of alarm came over me.
I had quite forgotten the two men. The look of warning I gave her
brought forth a merry, amused smile.
"Don't hesitate to speak before Blatchford and Hawkes," she said, to
my astonishment. "They are to be trusted implicitly. Isn't it true,
Hawkes?"
"It is, Madam," said he.
"Do you mean to say, Countess, that--"
"It has all been quite satisfactorily attended to through Mr.
Poopendyke," she said. "He consulted me before definitely engaging any
one, Mr. Smart, and I referred him to my lawyers in Vienna. I do hope
Hawkes and Blatchford and Henri, the chef, are quite satisfactory to
you. They were recently employed by some one in the British embassy
at--"
"Pray rest easy, Countess," I managed to say, interrupting out of
consideration for Hawkes and Blatchford, who, I thought, might feel
uncomfortable at hearing themselves discussed so impersonally.
"Everything is most satisfactory. I did not realise that I had you to
thank for my present mental and gastronomical comfort. You have
surrounded me with diadems."
Hawkes and Blatchford very gravely and in unison said: "Thank you,
sir."
"And now let us talk about something else," she said complacently, as
if the project of getting the rest of her family into the castle were
already off her mind. "I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your last
book, Mr. Smart. It is so exciting. Why do you call it 'The Fairest
of the Fair'?"
"Because my publisher insisted on substituting that title for the one
I had chosen myself. I'll admit that it doesn't fit the story, my dear
Countess, but what is an author to do when his publisher announces
that he has a beautiful head of a girl he wants to put on the cover
and that the title must fit the cover, so to speak?"
"But I don't consider it a beautiful head, Mr. Smart. A very flashy
blonde with all the earmarks of having posed in the chorus between the
days when she posed for your artist. And your heroine has very dark
hair in the book. Why did they make her a blonde on the cover?"
"Because they didn't happen to have anything but blonde pictures in
stock," said I, cheerfully. "A little thing like that doesn't matter,
when it comes to literature, my dear Countess. It isn't the hair that
counts. It's the hat."
"But I should think it would confuse the reader," she insisted. "The
last picture in the book has her with inky black hair, while in all
the others she is quite blonde."
"A really intelligent reader doesn't have to be told that the artist
changed his model before he got to the last picture," said I, and I
am quite confident she didn't hear me grate my teeth.
"But the critics must have noticed the error and commented upon it."
"My dear Countess, the critics never see the last picture in a book.
They are much too clever for that."
She pondered. "I suppose they must get horribly sick of all the books
they have to read."
"And they never have a chance to experience the delicious period of
convalescence that persons with less chronic afflictions have to look
forward to," said I, very gently. "They go from one disease to another,
poor chaps."
"I once knew an author at Newport who said he hated every critic on
earth," she said.
"I should think he might," said I, without hesitation. It was not until
the next afternoon that she got the full significance of the remark.
As I never encourage any one who seeks to discuss my stories with me,
being a modest chap with a flaw in my vanity, she abandoned the subject
after a few ineffectual attempts to find out how I get my plots, how
I write my books, and how I keep from losing my mind.
"Would you be entertained by a real mystery?" she asked, leaning toward
me with a gleam of excitement in her eyes. Very promptly I said I
should be. We were having our coffee. Hawkes and Blatchford had left
the room. "Well, tradition says that one of the old barons buried a
vast treasure in the cellar of this--"
"Stop!" I commanded, shaking my head. "Haven't I just said that I don't
want to talk about literature? Buried treasure is the very worst form
of literature."
"Very well," she said indignantly. "You will be sorry when you hear
I've dug it up and made off with it."
I pricked up my ears. This made a difference. "Are you going to hunt
for it yourself?"
"I am," she said resolutely.
"In those dark, dank, grewsome cellars?"
"Certainly."
"Alone?"
"If necessary," she said, looking at me over the edge of the coffee
cup.
"Tell me all about it," said I.
"Oh, we sha'n't find it, of course," said she calmly. I made note of
the pronoun. "They've been searching for it for two centuries without
success. My--that is, Mr. Pless has spent days down there. He is very
hard-up, you know. It would come in very handy for him."
I glowered. "I'm glad he's gone. I don't like the idea of his looking
for treasures in my castle."
She gave me a smile for that.