I AM INFORMED THAT I AM IN LOVE
Mr. Poopendyke began to develop a streak of romantic invention--in
fact, tomfoolery--A day or two after my experience with Count Tarnowsy
in the Rempf Hotel. He is the last person in the world of whom I--or
any one else--would suspect silliness of a radical nature.
We were finding it rather difficult to get down to actual, serious
work on the book. The plot and the synopsis, of course, were quite
completely outlined; with ordinary intensity of purpose on my part the
tale might have galloped through the introductory chapters with some
clarity and decisiveness. But for some reason I lacked the power of
concentration, or perhaps more properly speaking the power of
initiative. I laid it to the hub-bub created by the final effort of
the workmen to finish the job of repairing my castle before cold weather
set in.
"That isn't it, Mr. Smart," said my secretary darkly. We were in the
study and my pad of paper was lying idly on my knees. For half an hour
I had been trying to think of a handy sentence with which to open the
story; the kind of sentence that catches the unwary reader's attention
at a glance and makes for interest.
"What is it, then?" I demanded, at once resenting an opinion.
He smiled mysteriously. "You were not thinking of the workmen just
now, were you?"
"Certainly," said I, coldly. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing, I suppose," said he resignedly.
I hesitated. "Of course it is the work that upsets me. What are you
driving at?"
He stared for a long time at the portrait of Ludwig the Red. "Isn't
it odd that the Countess, an American, should be descended from the
old Rothhoefens? What a small world it is, after all!"
I became wary. "Nothing odd about it to me. We've all got to descend
from somebody."
"I dare say. Still it is odd that she should be hiding in the castle
of her ances--"
"Not at all, not at all. It just happens to be a handy place. Perfectly
natural."
We lapsed into a prolonged spell of silence. I found myself watching
him rather combatively, as who would anticipate the move of an
adversary.
"Perfect rot," said I, at last, without rhyme or reason.
He grinned. "Nevertheless, it's the general opinion that you are,"
said he.
I sat up very straight. "What's that?"
"You're in love," said he succinctly. It was like a bomb, and a bomb
is the very last thing in succinctness. It comes to the point without
palaver or conjecture, and it reduces havoc to a single synonymous
syllable.
"You're crazy!" I gasped.
"And the workmen haven't anything at all to do with it," he pronounced
emphatically. It was a direct charge. I distinctly felt called upon
to refute it. But while I was striving to collect my thoughts he went
on, somewhat arbitrarily, I thought: "You don't think we're all blind,
do you, Mr. Smart?" "We?" I murmured, a curious dampness assailing me.
"That is to say, Britton, the Schmicks and myself."
"The Schmicks?" It was high time that I should laugh. "Ha! ha! The
Schmicks! Good Lord, man,--the _Schmicks_." It sounded inane even to me,
but, on my soul, it was all I could think of to say.
"The Schmicks are tickled to death over it," said he. "And so is
Britton."
Collecting all the sarcasm that I could command at the instant, I
inquired: "And you, Mr. Poopendyke,--are you not ticklish?"
"Very," said he.
"Well, I'm not!" said I, savagely. "What does all this nonsense mean.
Don't be an ass, Fred."
"Perhaps you don't know it, Mr. Smart, but you _are_ in love," said he
so convincingly that I was conscious of an abrupt sinking of the heart.
Good heavens! Was he right? Was there anything in this silly twaddle?
"You are quite mad about her."
"The deuce you say!" I exclaimed, rather blankly.
"Oh, I've seen it coming. For that matter, so has she. It's as plain
as the nose--"
I leaped to my feet, startled. "She? You don't--Has she said anything
that leads you to believe--Oh, the deuce! What rot!"
"No use getting angry over it," he said consolingly. "Falling in love
is the sort of thing a fellow can't help, you know. It happens without
his assistance. It is so easy. Now I was once in love with a girl for
two years without really knowing it."
"And how did you find it out?" I asked, weakly.
"I didn't find it out until she married another chap. Then I knew I'd
been in love with her all the time. But that's neither here nor there.
You are heels over head in love with the Countess Tarnowsy and--"
"Shut up, Fred! You're going daffy from reading my books, or absorbing
my manuscripts, or--"
"Heaven is my witness, I don't read your books and I merely correct
your manuscripts. God knows there is no romance in that! You _are_ in
love. Now what are you going to do about it?"
"Do about it?" I demanded.
"You can't go on in this way, you know," he said relentlessly. "She
won't--"
"Why, you blithering idiot," I roared, "do you know what you are saying?
I'm not in love with anybody. My heart is--is--But never mind! Now,
listen to me, Fred. This nonsense has got to cease. I won't have it.
Why, she's already got a husband. She's had all she can stand in the
way of husb--"
"Rubbish! She can stand a husband or two more, if you are going to
look at it in a literal way. Besides, she hasn't a husband. She's
chucked him. Good riddance, too. Now, do you imagine for a single
instant that a beautiful, adorable young woman of twenty-three is going
to spend the rest of her life without a man? Not much! She's free to
marry again and she will."
"Admitting that to be true, why should she marry me?"
"I didn't say she was in love with you. I said you were in love with
her."
"Oh," I said, and my face fell "I see."
He seemed to be considering something. After a few seconds, he nodded
his head decisively. "Yes, I am sure of it. If the right man gets her,
she'll make the finest, sweetest wife in the world. She's never had
a chance to show what's really in her. She would be adorable, wouldn't
she?"
The sudden question caught me unawares.
"She would!" I said, with conviction.
"Well," said he, slowly and deliberately, "why don't you set about it,
then?"
He was so ridiculous that I thought for the fun of it, I'd humour him.
"Assuming that you are right in regard to my feelings toward her, Fred,
what leads you to believe that I would stand a chance of winning her?"
It was a silly question, but I declare I hung on his answer with a
tenseness that surprised me.
"Why not? You are good looking, a gentleman, a celebrity, and a man.
Bless my soul, she _could_ do worse."
"But you forget that I am--let me see--thirty-five and she is but
twenty-three."
"To offset that, she has been married and unhappy. That brings her
about up to your level, I should say. She's a mother, and that makes
you seem a good bit younger. Moreover, she isn't a sod widow. She's
a grass widow, and she's got a living example to use as a contrast.
Regulation widows sometimes forget the past because it is dim and dead;
but, by George, sir, the divorced wife doesn't forget the hard time
she's had. She's mighty careful when she goes about it the second time.
The other kind has lost her sense of comparison, her standard, so to
speak. Her husband may have been a rotter and all that sort of thing,
but he's dead and buried and she can't see anything but the good that
was in him for the simple reason that it's on his tombstone. But when
they're still alive and as bad as ever,--well, don't you see it's
different?"
"It occurs to me she'd be more likely to see the evil in all men and
steer clear of them."
"That isn't feminine nature. All women want to be loved. They want to
be married. They want to make some man happy."
"I suppose all this is philosophy," I mused, somewhat pleased and
mollified. "But we'll look at it from another point of view. The former
Miss Titus set out for a title. She got it. Do you imagine she'll marry
a man who has no position--By Jove! That reminds me of something. You
are altogether wrong in your reasoning, Fred. With her own lips she
declared to me one day that she'd never marry again. There you are!"
He rolled his eyes heavenward.
"They take delight in self-pity," said he. "You can't believe 'em under
oath when they're in that mood."
"Well, granting that she will marry again," said I, rather insistently,
"it doesn't follow that her parents will consent to a marriage with
any one less than a duke the next time."
"They've had their lesson."
"And she is probably a mercenary creature, after all. She's had a taste
of poverty, after a fashion. I imagine--"
"If I know anything about women, the Countess Tarnowsy wants love more
than anything else in the world, my friend. She was made to be loved
and she knows it. And she hasn't had any of it, except from men who
didn't happen to know how to combine love and respect. I'll give you
my candid opinion, Mr. John Bellamy Smart. She's in a receptive mood.
Strike while the iron is hot. You'll win or my name isn't--"
"Fred Poopendyke, you haven't a grain of sense," I broke in sharply.
"Do you suppose, just to oblige you, I'll get myself mixed up in this
wretched squabble? Why, she's not really clear of the fellow yet. She's
got a good many months to wait before the matter of the child and the
final decree--"
"Isn't she worth waiting a year for--or ten years? Besides, the whole
squabble will come to an end the minute old man Titus puts up the back
million. And the minute the Countess goes to him and says she's
_willing_ for him to pay it, you take my word for it, he'll settle like
a flash. It rests with her."
"I don't quite get your meaning."
"She isn't going to let a stingy little million stand between her and
happiness."
"Confound you, do you mean to say she'd ask her father to pay over
that million in order to be free to marry--" I did not condescend to
finish the sentence.
"Why not?" he demanded after a moment. "He owes it, doesn't he?"
I gasped. "But you wouldn't have him pay over a million to that damned
brute of a Count!"
He grinned. "You've changed your song, my friend. A few weeks ago you
were saying he ought to pay it, that it would serve him right, and--"
"Did I say that?"
"You did. You even said it to the Countess."
"But not with the view to making it possible for her to hurry off and
marry again. Please understand that, Fred."
"He ought to pay what he owes. He gave a million to get one husband
for her. He ought to give a million to be rid of him, so that she could
marry the next one without putting him to any expense whatsoever. It's
only fair to her, I say. And now I'll tell you something else: the
Countess, who has stood out stubbornly against the payment of this
money, is now halfway inclined to advise the old gentleman to settle
with Tarnowsy."
"She is?" I cried in astonishment. "How do you know?"
"I told her I thought it was the cheapest and quickest way out of it,
and she said: 'I wonder!'"
"Have you been discussing her most sacred affairs with her, you
blithering--"
"No, sir," said he, with dignity. "She has been discussing them with
_me_."
I have no recollection of what I said as I stalked out of the room.
He called out after me, somewhat pleadingly, I thought:
"Ask Britton what he has to say about it."
Things had come to a pretty pass! Couldn't a gentleman be polite and
agreeable to a young and charming lady whom circumstances had thrown
in his way without having his motives misconstrued by a lot of snooping,
idiotic menials whose only zest in life sprung from a temperamental
tendency to belittle the big things and enlarge upon the small ones?
What rot! What utter rot! Ask Britton! The more I thought of
Poopendyke's injunction the more furious I grew. What insufferable
insolence! Ask Britton! The idea! Ask _my valet_! Ask him what? Ask him
politely if he could oblige me by telling me whether I was in love? I
suppose that is what Poopendyke meant.
It was the silliest idea in the world. In the first place I was _not_ in
love, and in the second place whose business was it but mine if I were?
Certainly not Poopendyke's, certainly not Britton's, certainly not the
Schmicks'! Absolute lack of any sense of proportion, that's what ailed
the whole bally of them. What looked like love to them--benighted
dolts!--was no more than a rather resolute effort on my part to be kind
to and patient with a person who had invaded my home and set
everybody--including myself--by the ears.
But, even so, what right had my secretary to constitute himself adviser
and mentor to the charming invader? What right had he to suggest what
she should do, or what her father should do, or what _anybody_ should
do? He was getting to be disgustingly officious. What he needed was a
smart jacking up, a little plain talk from me. Give a privileged and
admittedly faithful secretary an inch and he'll have you up to your ears
in trouble before you know what has happened. By the same token, what
right had she to engage herself in confidential chats with--But just
then I caught sight of Britton coming upstairs with my neatly polished
tan shoes in one hand and a pair of number 3-1/2A tan pumps in the
other. Not expecting to meet me in the hall, he had neglected to remove
his cap when he came in from the courtyard. In some confusion, he tried
to take it off, first with one hand, then with the other, sustaining
what one might designate as absent treatment kicks on either jaw from
two distinct sexes in the shape of shoes. He managed to get all four of
them into one hand, however, and then grabbed off his cap.
"Anythink more, sir?" he asked, purely from habit. I was regarding the
shoes with interest. Never have I known anything so ludicrous as the
contrast between my stupendous number tens and the dainty pumps that
seemed almost babyish beside them.
Then I did the very thing I had excoriated Poopendyke for even
suggesting. I asked Britton!
"Britton, what's all this gossip I hear going the rounds of the castle
behind my back?"
Confound him, he looked pleased! "It's quite true, sir, quite true."
"Quite true!" I roared. "What's quite true, sir?"
"Isn't it, sir?" he asked, dismayed.
"Isn't what?"
"I mean to say, sir, isn't it true?"
"My God!" I cried, throwing up my hands in hopeless despair.
"You--you--wait! I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I want the
truth, Britton. Who put it into that confounded head of yours that I
am--er--in love with the Countess? Speak! Who did it?"
He lowered his voice, presumably because I had dropped mine to a very
loud whisper. I also had glanced over both shoulders.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I must be honest, sir. It was you as
first put it into my 'ead, sir."
"I?" My face went the colour of a cardinal's cap.
"You, sir. It's as plain as the nose on your--"
"That will do, Britton," I commanded. He remained discreetly silent.
"That will do, I say," I repeated, somewhat testily. "Do you hear,
sir?"
"Yes, sir," he responded. "That will do, you says."
"Ahem! I--ahem!" Somewhat clumsily I put on my nose-glasses and made
a pretext of examining his burden rather closely. "What's this you
have here."
"Shoes, sir."
"I see, I see. Let me have them."
He handed me my own. "The others, if you please," I said, disdaining
the number tens. "May I inquire, sir, where you are taking _these_?"
I had the Countess's pumps in my hands. He explained that he was going
to drop mine in my room and then take hers upstairs. "You may drop
mine as you intended. I shall take care of these."
"Very good, sir," said he, with such positive relief in his voice that
I glared at him. He left me standing there, a small pump in each hand.
Five minutes later I was at her door, a pump in each hand and my heart
in my mouth. A sudden, inexplicable form of panic took possession of
me. I stood there ready to tap resoundingly on the panel of the door
with the heel of a slipper; I never raised my hand for the purpose.
Instead of carrying out my original design, I developed an overpowering
desire to do nothing of the sort. Why go on making a fool of myself?
Why add fuel to the already pernicious flame? Of course I was not in
love with her, the idea was preposterous. But, just the same, the
confounded servants were beginning to gossip, and back stair scandal
is the very worst type. It was wrong for me to encourage it. Like a
ninny, I had just given Britton something to support his contention,
and he wouldn't be long in getting down to the servants' hall with the
latest exhibit in the charge against me.
Moreover, if every one was talking about it, what was to prevent the
silly gossip from reaching the sensitive ears of the Countess? A
sickening thought struck me: could it be possible that the Countess
herself suspected me of being in love with her? A woman's vanity goes
a long way sometimes. The thought did not lessen the panic that
afflicted me. I tip-toed away from the door to a less exposed spot at
the bend in the stairway.
There, after some deliberation, I came to a decision. The proper thing
for me to do was to show all of them that their ridiculous suspicions
were wrong. I owed it to the Countess, to say the least. She was my
guest, as it were, and it was my duty to protect her while she was in
my house. The only thing for me to do, therefore, was to stay away
from her.
The thought of it distressed me, but it seemed to be the only way, and
the fair one. No doubt she would expect some sort of an explanation
for the sudden indifference on my part, but I could attribute everything
to an overpowering desire to work on my story. (I have a habit of using
my work as an excuse for not doing a great many things that I ought
to do.)
All this time I was regarding the small tan pumps with something akin
to pain in my eyes. I could not help thinking about the tiny feet they
sometimes covered. By some sort of intuitive computation I arrived at
the conclusion that they were adorably small, and pink, and warm.
Suddenly it occurred to me that my present conduct was reprehensible,
that no man of honour would be holding a lady's pumps in his hands and
allowing his imagination to go too far. Resolutely I put them behind
my back and marched downstairs.
"Britton," said I, a few minutes later, "you may take these up to the
Countess, after all."
He blinked his eyes. "Wasn't she at 'ome, sir?"
"Don't be insolent, Britton. Do as I tell you."
"Very good, sir." He held the pumps up to admire them. "They're very
cute, ain't they, sir?"
"They are just like _all_ pumps," said I, indifferently, and walked
away. If I could have been quite sure that it was a chuckle I heard, I
should have given Britton something to think about for the rest of his
days. The impertinent rascal!
For some two long and extremely monotonous days I toiled. A chapter
shaped itself--after a fashion. Even as I wrote, I knew that it wasn't
satisfactory and that I should tear it up the instant it was finished.
What irritated me more than anything else was the certain conviction
that Poopendyke, who typed it as I progressed, also knew that it would
go into the waste paper basket.
Both nights I went to bed early and to sleep late. I could not deny
to myself that I was missing those pleasant hours with the Countess.
I _did_ miss them. I missed Rosemary and Jinko and Helen Marie Louise
Antoinette and Blake.
An atmosphere of gloom settled around Poopendyke and Britton. They
eyed me with a sort of pathetic wonder in their faces. As time went
on they began to look positively forlorn and unhappy. Once or twice
I caught them whispering in the hallway. On seeing me they assumed an
air of nonchalance that brought a grim smile to my lips. I was beginning
to hate them. Toward the end of the second day, the four Schmicks
became so aggravatingly doleful that I ordered them, one and all, to
keep out of my sight. Even the emotionless Hawkes and the perfect
Blatchford were infected. I don't believe I've ever seen a human face
as solemnly respectful as Hawkes' was that night at dinner. He seemed
to be pitying me from the bottom of his heart. It was getting on my
nerves.
I took a stroll in the courtyard after dinner, and I may be forgiven
I hope for the few surreptitious glances I sent upwards in the direction
of the rear windows in the eastern wing. I wondered what she was doing,
and what she was thinking of my extraordinary behaviour, and why the
deuce she hadn't sent down to ask me to come up and tell her how busy
I was. She had not made a single sign. The omission was not particularly
gratifying, to say the least.
Approaching the servants' hall, I loitered. I heard voices, a mixture
of tongues. Britton appeared to be doing the most of the talking.
Gradually I became aware of the fact that he was explaining to the
four Schmicks the meaning of an expression in which must have been
incorporated the words "turned him down."
Hawkes, the impeccable Hawkes, joined in. "If I know anything about
it, I'd say she has threw the 'ooks into 'im."
Then they had to explain _that_ to Conrad and Gretel, who repeated "Ach,
Gott" and other simple expletives in such a state of misery that I could
almost detect tears in their voices.
"It ain't that, Mr. 'Awkes," protested Britton loyally. "He's lost his
nerve, that's wot it is. They allus do when they realise 'ow bad they're
hit. Turn 'im down? Not much, Mr. 'Awkes. Take it from me, Mr. 'Awkes,
he's not going to give 'er the _chawnce_ to turn 'im down."
"Ach, Gott!" said Gretel. I will stake my head that she wrung her
hands.
"Women is funny," said Hawkes. (I had no idea the wretch was so
ungrammatical.) "You can't put your finger on 'em ever. While I 'aven't
seen much of the Countess during my present engagement, I will say
this: she has a lot more sense than people give 'er credit for. Now
why should she throw the 'ooks into a fine, upstanding chap like 'im,
even if he is an American? She made a rotten bad job the first time,
mind you. If she has threw the 'ooks into 'im, as I am afeared, I can't
see wot the deuce ails 'er."
My perfect footman, Blatchford, ventured an opinion, and I blessed him
for it. "We may be off our nuts on the 'ole bloomink business," said
he. "Maybe he 'as thrown the 'ooks into 'er. Who knows? It looks that
w'y to me." (I remember distinctly that he used the word "thrown" and
I was of half a mind to rush in and put him over Hawkes, there and
then.)
"In any case," said Britton, gloom in his voice, "it's a most unhappy
state of affairs. He's getting to be a perfect crank. Complines about
everything I do. He won't 'ave 'is trousers pressed and he 'asn't been
shaved since Monday."
I stole away, rage in my soul. Or was it mortification? In any event,
I had come to an irrevocable decision: I would ship the whole lot of
them, without notice, before another day was gone.
The more I thought of the way I was being treated by my own servants,
and the longer I dwelt upon the ignominious figure I must have presented
as the hero of their back-door romance, the angrier I got. I was an
object of concern to them, an object of pity! Confound them, they were
feeling sorry for me because I had received my _conge_, and they were
actually finding fault with me for not taking it with a grin on my face!
Before going to bed I went into the loggia (for the first time in three
days) and, keeping myself pretty well hidden behind a projection in
the wall, tried to get a glimpse of the Countess's windows. Failing
there, I turned my steps in another direction and soon stood upon my
little balcony. There was no sign of her in the windows, although a
faint light glowed against the curtains of a well-remembered room near
the top of the tower.
Ah, what a cosy, jolly room! What a delicious dinner I had had there!
And what a supper! Somehow, I found myself thinking of those little
tan pumps. As a matter of fact, they had been a source of annoyance
to me for more than forty-eight hours. I had found myself thinking of
them at most inopportune times, greatly to the detriment of my work
as a realist.
It was cool on the balcony, and I was abnormally warm, as might be
expected. It occurred to me that I might do worse than to sit out there
in the cool of the evening and enjoy a cigar or two--three or four,
if necessary.
But, though I sat there until nearly midnight and chattered my teeth
almost out of my head with the cold, she did not appear at her window.
The aggravating part of it was that while I was shivering out there
in the beastly raw, miasmic air, she doubtless was lying on a luxurious
couch before a warm fire in a dressing gown and slippers,--ah,
slippers!--reading a novel and thinking of nothing in the world but
her own comfort! And those rascally beggars presumed to think that I
was in love with a selfish, self-centred, spoiled creature like that!
Rubbish!
I am afraid that Poopendyke found me in a particularly irascible frame
of mind the next morning. I know that Britton did. I thought better
of my determination to discharge Britton. He was an exceptionally good
servant and a loyal fellow, so why should I deprive myself of a treasure
simply because the eastern wing of my abode was inhabited by an
unfeeling creature who hadn't a thought beyond fine feathers and
bonbons? I was not so charitably inclined toward Hawkes and Blatchford,
who were in my service through an influence over which I did not appear
to have any control. They would have to go.
"Mr. Poopendyke," said I, after Blatchford had left the breakfast room,
"I want you to give notice to Hawkes and Blatchford to-day."
"Notice?" he exclaimed incredulously.
"Notice," said I, very distinctly.
He looked distressed. "I thought they were most; satisfactory to you."
"I've changed my opinion."
"By Jove, Mr. Smart, I--I don't know how the Countess will take such
high-handed--ahem! You see, sir, she--she was good enough to recommend
them to me. It will be quite a shock to--"
"By the Lord Harry, Fred, am I to--"
"Don't misunderstand me," he made haste to say. "This is your house.
You have a perfect right to hire and discharge, but--but--Don't you
think you'd better consider very carefully--" He seemed to be finding
his collar rather tight.
I held up my hand. "Of course I do not care to offend the Countess
Tarnowsy. It was very kind of her to recommend them. We--we will let
the matter rest for a few days."
"She has informed me that you were especially pleased with the manner
in which they served the dinner the other night. I think she said you
regarded them as incomparable diadems, or something of the sort. It
may have been the champagne."
My thoughts leaped backward to that wonderful dinner. "It wasn't the
champagne," said I, very stiffly.
"Do you also contemplate giving notice to the chef and his wife, our
only chambermaid?"
"No, I don't," I snapped. "I think they were in bed."
He looked at me as if he thought I had gone crazy. I wriggled
uncomfortably in my chair for a second or two, and then abruptly
announced that we'd better get to work. I have never ceased to wonder
what construction he could have put on that stupid slip of the tongue.
I cannot explain why, but at the slightest unusual sound that morning
I found myself shooting an involuntary glance at the imperturbable
features of Ludwig the Red. Sometimes I stopped in the middle of a
sentence, to look and to listen rather more intently than seemed
absolutely necessary, and on each occasion I was obliged to begin the
sentence all over again, because, for the life of me, I couldn't
remember what it was I had set out to say in dictation. Poopendyke had
an air of patient tolerance about him that irritated me intensely.
More than once I thought I detected him in the act of suppressing a
smile.
At eleven o'clock, Blatchford came to the door. His ordinarily stoical
features bore signs of a great, though subdued excitement. I had a
fleeting glimpse of Britton in the distance,--a sort of passing shadow,
as it were.
"A note for you, sir, if you please," said he. He was holding the
salver almost on a level with his nose. It seemed to me that he was
looking at it out of the corner of his eye.
My heart--my incomprehensible heart--gave a leap that sent the blood
rushing to my face. He advanced, not with his usual imposing tread but
with a sprightliness that pleased me vastly. I took the little pearl
grey envelope from the salver, and carelessly glanced at the
superscription. There was a curious ringing in my ears.
"Thank you, Blatchford; that will do."
"I beg pardon, sir, but there is to be an answer."
"Oh," said I. I had the feeling that at least fifty eyes were upon me,
although I am bound to admit that both Poopendyke and the footman were
actively engaged in looking in another direction.
I tore open the envelope.
"_Have you deserted me entirely? Won't you please come and see me?
Thanks 'for the violets, but I can't talk to violets, you know. Please
come up for luncheon._"
I managed to dash off a brief note in a fairly nonchalant manner.
Blatchford almost committed the unpardonable crime of slamming the
door behind him, he was in such a hurry to be off with the message.
Then I went over and stood above Mr. Poopendyke.
"Mr. Poopendyke," said I slowly, darkly, "what do you know about those
violets?"
He quailed. "I hope you don't mind, Mr. Smart. It's all right. I put
one of your cards in, so that there couldn't be any mistake."