“You’re a very naughty boy,” said the countess, intent again upon
her pencil-sharpening, “go back and play with your batteries!” and,
with a gasp of fear, the man turned and ran blindly from the room, his
face dabbled red.
There was a dead silence, and then the countess looked up.
“I suppose you think I’m very horrid? But Selwyn is difficult at
times--shockingly difficult, and shockingly sulky. I must impose my
will on him for his own good. And really, he isn’t hurt any more than
he would have been if his razor had slipped.”
The cold-bloodedness of the thing left Lois breathless and shaken. She
could hardly believe that she was not dreaming horribly.
“It was rather--drastic, wasn’t it?” she said, speaking with
difficulty.
Again the dark eyes met hers.
“Drastic? Yes. Dr. Tappatt wishes me to be even more drastic. Did you
speak to your friend?”
“Yes,” said Lois, almost grateful to be lifted out of the scene.
“And she will come? How dear of her! I told you I was afraid this
morning, Miss Reddle. I don’t suppose you guessed why, even after
Moron’s amazing exhibition of childish temper?”
Lois did not guess and was wisely silent. Her ladyship made no further
reference to the scene. When Lord Moron came to lunch with his face
conspicuously plastered, his mother did no more at the end of the meal
than say:
“Please don’t come to dinner like that, Selwyn. One would imagine you
had been in an earthquake.”
To which he answered, with a meek:
“Yes, madam.”
The change of rooms had been effected, and Lois was now in what might
very well have been a small state apartment in one of the royal
palaces. The new bed had been erected, and as the hour approached for
Lizzy’s arrival, the uneasy qualms which Lois had been feeling all day
began to dissipate. Though she had given strict injunctions as to the
appearance her son should present at dinner, the countess herself
dined out. She sent for Lois before she left the house.
“If you could amuse Selwyn, please do so. He is quite a good companion
if you can reduce your mentality to the level of his. Possibly your
friend will find him easier than you,” she added, and Lois would have
been amused if she were not a little shocked.
Lizzy came promptly at six, bringing with her a battered black bag
containing what she described as her “court dress and coronation
robes” and the girl prepared her for a shock.
“You’re dining to-night with the Earl of Moron,” she said, and Lizzy
collapsed into a chair.
“I can’t and I won’t,” she said energetically. “I knew there was going
to be a catch in this!”
Lois soothed her fears, and, though she did not wish to follow the
example of the servants and speak of his lordship in terms of
disparagement, she sufficiently reassured her friend that Lizzy
neither fainted nor flew when she was introduced to the vacuous,
young-old man.
He was standing with his back to the empty fireplace in the
drawing-room, a cigarette drooping from his lips, when Lois ushered
her friend into his presence. He gave Lizzy a feeble handshake.
“Awfully glad to meet you. Nice weather we’re having,” he said, and to
Lois: “Her ladyship’s gone, I suppose? That beastly bounder Praye
called for her.”
Lois remembered the scene, of which she had been an unwilling witness,
and Mr. Chesney Praye’s attitude towards the countess, which seemed
inexplicable, was within her understanding. Chesney Praye was
something more than a financial adviser. Apparently he had advised the
lady in affairs of the heart only too well, though Lois found it
rather difficult to imagine the masterful countess in a tender mood.
“Perfectly beastly bounder,” said his lordship with such energy that
she realised that the spirit of revolt was not wholly crushed. “That
wretched boozing doctor is bad, but Chesney Praye is worse! I call him
a bird of prey--that’s not bad, what? Chesney, the bird of prey!”
He chuckled at his mild jest and visibly brightened under the
influence of his own humour. This was the second reference that had
been made to the mysterious doctor. Lois wondered if she would be
called upon to meet him.
“Well, I’m glad she’s gone with her bird of prey. Let’s go along and
have some grub.”
Lizzy’s jaw dropped at the sound of this familiar vulgarism; and that
moment probably marked the beginning of an interest in the aristocracy
which was fated to grow in intensity.
It was one of the most cheerful dinners that Lois remembered, and
certainly for his lordship it was an hilarious feast, for he trotted
out his joke about “bird of prey” some half a dozen times, and on each
occasion with an increasing measure of amusement.
“I didn’t see the joke at first,” said Lizzy, wiping her eyes.
“His name’s Praye,” explained his lordship eagerly. “I call him the
bird of prey--rather good, what? Let’s play draughts. I’m rather a dab
at draughts.”
It was an opportunity to learn to know him better and Lois very
skilfully drew him out. He had been to a public school--he thought it
was Harrow; in fact, he was pretty sure it was Harrow--for two years,
and then his mother had taken him away. He hated school life; it was
rough. Since then he had practically not left his mother. He thought
he was a member of one of the clubs, but he wasn’t quite sure which
one; at any rate, he had never been there.
“You aren’t married?” asked Lois boldly.
The question afforded him a tremendous amount of enjoyment.
“Married--me? Good gracious, no! Who wants to marry a silly old johnny
like me? Oh dear, no! There was a girl who wanted to marry me, I
understand, when I was rather young, but her ladyship wouldn’t have
her at any price.”
He had never occupied any responsible position. His mother managed his
estate with the aid of bailiffs and lawyers; from time to time
documents came to him for his signature; and he had been to the House
of Lords once to take his seat.
“Never again--too silly,” he said. “They dress you up in red velvet
and put crowns and things on your head!”
She discovered, to her surprise, that he had a hobby, and
incidentally, his mother’s sneering remarks about his “batteries” were
cleared up. He had a passion for electrical apparatus. His study, into
which the girl had not been invited, was a litter of model dynamos,
electric trains, and batteries.
“I’ve done one of the neatest little jobs for her ladyship in the
library--ask her to show it to you.” His face went serious, “Perhaps
you’d better not,” he said hastily.
Electrical work was not wholly an amusement to him. He claimed with
pride to have fixed all the bells in the house, and later the girl
learnt that this was true.
Whatever terrors the peerage had for Lizzy were quickly dissipated;
towards the end of the evening she was hotly disputing the bona fides
of a piece which had mysteriously appeared on his side of the
chequer-board.
“Never had such a perfectly jolly evening in all my young life,” said
his lordship. He had been glancing nervously at the clock for some
time. “Now I think I’ll toddle, before the madam comes.”
He made one of his rapid exits, and the two girls came out into the
hall. Braime was standing by the front door, staring through the glass
panels into the street.
“Good-night, miss,” he said respectfully, and then continued his
vigil.
“I don’t like that man,” said Lizzy, when they got to their room.
“Braime? I didn’t, but I owe him so much. If he had not been there
last night----”
“How did he get there--that’s the question?” said Lizzy. “He must have
been in the room when the balcony fell, for almost at once I felt
somebody pulling me aside.”
“What do you think of Lord Moron?” asked Lois, anxious to turn the
conversation to pleasanter channels.
“He’s wonderful,” said Lizzy dreamily. “From what I heard about him I
thought he was dippy; but that boy’s got brains!”
Lois was in bed, and Lizzy, who was too intensely interested in her
own views to be a quick-change artist, was in that condition of
deshabille which made her least presentable, when there came a frantic
tapping at the door.
“Who is that?” asked Lois.
“It’s me, young lady. Can I come in?”
It was Lord Moron’s voice.