MR. FARR'S MISGUIDED ZEAL
After breakfast on the following Friday Allen approached Isobel
solemnly.
"May I speak to you for one moment, please, Commandant?" he asked, in
portentously official tones.
"Certainly, Mr. Allen," she replied in the same manner. "Come into the
office."
She led the way into the not very tidy sanctum from which she conducted
the voluminous correspondence with various military bodies which formed
a large share in her work in the Dunwater Park Auxiliary Hospital for
Officers. She sat down at her desk and stirred some papers with an air
of importance.
"You find me very busy," she intimated austerely. "But I can give you a
moment. What can I do for you?"
Allen, as befitted one in the presence of authority, came to attention.
"Please," said he humbly, "I want leave to go up to town by the noon
train."
"But Sister's the person who runs the leave department."
"Yes, but she's gone up herself by the early train."
"So she has. Well, what's your reason for this dreadful request?"
"I want," said Allen, his eyes twinkling, "to buy myself an engagement
ring."
Isobel managed to preserve her severity with an effort.
"Really," she replied; "I don't think that is at all a good reason. The
War Office discourages...."
"Very well; then I'll buy you one in the village. I saw a sweet thing
in diamonds and sapphires yesterday--only one-and-six."
"Don't forget that it's to-day that Mr. Wentworth's coming to tea. Are
you going to desert him?"
"I am. I can't behave in his presence."
"Here's your half-fare voucher, then."
"Thank you, darling."
"Hush! Stop it! Go away--some one might come in. Patients mustn't kiss
commandants. It isn't discipline."
"It would be, with some commandants. Well, good luck to the tea-party.
And if Wentworth offers any more thousand-pound notes, just remember
you've me to support now, and accept."
"I do hope he won't do anything awful," said Isobel anxiously. "I asked
him for to-day because I thought there'd be nobody here that mattered,
and of _course_ Lady Anderson _would_ take the opportunity to come and
look round on that exact day."
"Who's she?"
Isobel sighed.
"She is my Hated Rival," she explained. "That is, I'm hers. She also
runs an officers' hospital, and she's coming over to see how I run
mine. She disapproves of me altogether--always has--and now she's
furiously jealous about the hospital, so we _are_ in for a nice time.
She's father's pet aversion, too."
"Thank God I've picked to-day to go to town!" said Allen piously. "I
wish you joy of your day."
She smiled mournfully.
"Get back early and comfort me."
* * * * * * *
Alf was not looking forward with pleasure to his afternoon, either. All
the morning a sense of the importance of the impending function weighed
upon his mind; and as the day wore on the more particular problem of
what clothes to wear refused to be either settled or banished.
Immediately after lunch he went to his bedroom and, spreading out his
entire wardrobe before him, spent an hour in an agony of indecision.
Finally he went to Bill and implored his help.
Bill was heavily occupied with his flagon and his handmaid and at first
refused to apply his intellect to the matter at all; but the mere idea
of having to solve the insistent sartorial problem unaided drove Alf
into desperation. He pleaded and threatened until Bill rose in disgust
from his divan and, with Lucy following, went into Alf's room.
"A nursemaid is what you wants, Alf," he said bitterly. "I never see
such a blinkin' kid as you in my life. I should have thought you'd have
known what's what at your age better'n to 'ave to come runnin' to me
about it. 'Owever...."
He sat down on the bed and regarded the wild confusion of clothes with
lofty scorn.
"Well," said Alf--his agitation lending a touch of asperity to his
tone--"instead of talkin' like that, s'spose you get on with it. What
ought I to wear?"
Bill sniffed scornfully.
"Why," he said breezily, "a pot 'at, o' course, and them black things
o' yours. You can't go wrong that way."
"I thought you'd say that," answered Alf dejectedly. "I was 'opin' as
'ow a straw 'at might--them black things is that 'ot I can't 'ardly
breathe. 'Owever, I s'pose yer right."
He began to sort out his garments of ceremony from the pile before him.
"Don't forget your spats," said Bill. He settled himself more
comfortably on the bed. "'Ere, Lucy, my dear, come over 'ere beside me."
"Oh, indeed," said Alf, realizing her presence for the first time. "No,
you don't. I don't 'ave no females in my room while I'm dressing."
"Don't trouble yerself about that," replied Bill airily. "Carry on.
Lucy won't mind."
Alf stared with strong disapprobation at Lucy, who smiled coyly at him
and displayed a large expanse of bare leg.
"No," he agreed in a meaning tone. "Lucy wouldn't mind. I ain't
bothering about Lucy, though. It's me as minds. Tell 'er to 'op it at
once, Bill Grant, an' think shame of yerself. I dunno what the 'ell's
come to yer."
Bill, however unwillingly, was constrained to bow before Alf's outraged
modesty, and Lucy accordingly withdrew. Then Alf proceeded to dress
himself. A struggle with a stiff and terribly high collar made both Alf
himself and his temper exceedingly hot; but at last the operation was
over. He placed his glossy topper on his head and displayed himself for
his friend's inspection.
Bill looked him over minutely and critically.
"Yes," he said at length. "Yes, you looks all right. Seems to me you
wants brightening up some'ow. I know! 'Old on 'arf a mo."
He went out of the room and returned a moment later with something
rolled up in his hand.
"This is what you want to brighten yer up," he said confidently.
"This'll fair knock 'em."
He unrolled the object in his hand. It was his pictorial waistcoat.
Alf looked askance at it.
"I dunno...." he began feebly.
"Put it on, you blinkin' idjit," said the waistcoat's owner with sudden
heat. "Why, it'll make all the difference. Just what you want."
"But perhaps _she_ won't like it," objected the love-sick swain.
"More fool she, if she don't. But she will. I knows what the nobs
likes. You trust me."
Alf, reassured and over-persuaded by Bill's tone of easy confidence,
put on the gorgeous garment, and then, ready at last, he went
downstairs prepared for a very hot and uncomfortable walk to Dunwater.
Bill followed; but finding Lucy waiting for her master outside Alf's
bedroom door with a full flagon in her hand, he with the faithful
damsel disappeared forthwith in the direction of his divan, and was no
more seen.
As Alf opened the front door he started back in surprise and swore
deeply and inexcusably. The drive was full of brightly colored figures.
All his immense retinue seemed to be gathered together waiting for him,
their sober garments laid aside and their richest robes put on. Six
motionless figures mounted on magnificent and gayly caparisoned black
horses formed the center of the group; and a seventh horse, even more
gorgeously bedight, was being led up and down by a coal-black groom.
Alf's heart sank. Somebody had apparently been wholesale once more.
"Farr!" called Alf sharply.
Mustapha came forward. He was clad in garments so encrusted with gems
that they crackled together as he walked. He wore the air of the good
and faithful servant about to receive the praise he knows to be well
merited.
"What the 'ell's all this about?" demanded his master.
"Lord," replied Mustapha, his face radiating a quiet joy, "I have
made all ready. For so great a day it is meet that thou should'st be
surrounded with all magnificence, that the father of the maiden may
know how great is thy wealth and power. Therefore have I caused to be
prepared a concourse of splendor outdoing even that of the great Prince
Aladdin at the time of his betrothal to the Princess Badralbudour--upon
them be peace. Thus shalt thou shine in beauty as the full moon upon
the night of its completion, for verily the like of this gathering hath
not been seen upon earth."
"Umph!" said Alf. He reflected that Mustapha seemed very fond of giving
himself a great deal of trouble for nothing.
"Furthermore," continued Mustapha serenely, "thy steed awaits thee.
For speed and grace he hath not his equal upon earth; black is he as a
raven's wing, and of a mettlesome spirit withal."
Alf glanced at the prancing steed. He had only once in his life been on
horseback. That had been when he had fallen lame on a route march and
had been mounted on Captain Richards' patient and war-weary charger.
This horse, however, seemed different. There was more life about it,
somehow.
He turned to Mustapha.
"Farr," he said, "you may mean well, but there's times when I thinks
you tries to be aggravating. For being a blinkin' fool you 'ave not yer
equal on earth. Now you can just wash the 'ole thing out again--see? I
don't want no circus processions round me. What d'yer take me for?"
Mustapha bowed low and then, as patiently as though he were explaining
to a child, he spoke.
"But, lord, it is thy bodyguard," he remonstrated. "And indeed already
have I dispatched before thee a concourse of incredible richness."
"_What?_" Alf clutched his hat in horror.
"There have gone to the palace of the maiden's father other forty
of thy slaves, twenty white and twenty black. Upon his head each
black slave beareth a bowl of jewels of surpassing worth, while each
white slave as he goes will scatter money amongst the people, that
thy popularity may be great in the land. With them are musicians to
discourse sweet sounds. Even now they pass the outer gate."
At that moment there came, borne faintly down the breeze, the
discordant clash of distant but barbaric music.
"Lumme!" said Alf. He felt wildly for his Button, and, as the whole
concourse fell prostrate on its face at sight of the talisman, he
called up Eustace and gave him excited but definite orders. The music
in the distance stopped suddenly, and at the same time the crowd in the
drive (with the exception of the chastened Mustapha) disappeared into
thin air. Alf, desperately anxious to get away from the house before
any further horrible thing happened, stood not upon the order of his
going, but went at once up the drive full of anxiety lest anybody from
the village had chanced to be passing the gates at the moment when the
band had been so ruthlessly suppressed.
As he turned into the road he saw the massive blue form of P.C. Arthur
Jobling, and his heart missed a beat. But the policeman was a pitiable
sight. His helmet had fallen off and lay in the road beside his
official notebook, and he was gazing from side to side in a horrified
and vacant manner, as though he were searching for something and were
terrified lest he should find it. Alf was reassured.
"Good afternoon--my man," he said jauntily.
Jobling stared at him.
"G--good afternoon, sir," he gulped. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but do
you 'appen to 'ave sent a--a sort o' procession like, with a band, out
of 'ere?"
Alf controlled his voice with difficulty, but managed to keep his
jaunty tone.
"Do I look like it?" he said.
Jobling groaned.
"I'm goin' barmy!" he muttered. "Look 'ere, sir, as a great favor,
like, might I ask yer not to tell 'em in the village what I asked yer?"
"Betcher life!" answered Alf cheerily, much relieved at this unexpected
stroke of good fortune. Then, leaving the unfortunate constable to
collect his property and what remained to him of his wits, Alf set
out for Dunwater, growing at every step more convinced that, whatever
clothes might be correct for an afternoon call on a hot day, his
present get-up was hopelessly wrong.
As he passed through the village he found himself the object of much
interest--of an unmistakably hostile kind. On every side unfriendly
faces scowled at him. Knots of people were standing in the street, and
as he passed them he heard a confused medley of remarks not openly
intended for his ear, but evidently to his address.
"Spy!" said somebody.
"German!" supplemented several others.
"Food 'oarder!"
Finally as he passed the post-office Mrs. Rudd's voice might have been
heard through the open door upraised in some denunciation of which
Higgins caught only two words:
" ... Scotland Yard...."
Alf was devoutly thankful when at last the village was passed and the
road to Dunwater lay before him. As he plodded along the hot road he
pondered dully what sinister events those two words "Scotland Yard"
might portend. He was worried for a moment; but then his arrival in
sight of the Dunwater Park gates drove all worries other than those
of etiquette from his mind. What ought he to do when he arrived? What
ought he to say? How did one address baronets? He wanted to make a
really memorable first impression on Isobel's father--but how? Of
course, if he had left himself to be guided by Mustapha's ideas, his
first impression would have been only too memorable.
"Pity ole Farr's so bloomin' 'olesale," mused Alf, "because it wasn't
'arf a bad notion me bringing ole FitzPeter a bit of a present, but
Farr always plasters it on so bloomin' thick.... But lumme, what's to
prevent _me_?... That's a bit of an idea--never thought o' that. I'll
do it."
He glanced cautiously up and down the road. Nobody was in sight. He
climbed through the hedge at the roadside and found himself in a
little, dark wood.
"Just the place," he said to himself. "Now for Eustace."
Unbuttoning his tightly fitting garments, he fished out the Button and
rubbed it....
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile, on the lawn at Dunwater Park, strange events had been taking
place. A large party was gathered together, but instead of the merry
gabble of voices and laughter which characterized the tea-hour as a
rule, a solemn silence brooded over the scene. A blight had fallen over
the entire gathering. Light-hearted and empty-headed subalterns, whose
whole duty in the scheme of things had till now been the outpouring of
frothy nonsense, sat mum and miserable. Tea had not yet appeared.
Dominating the scene and acting as a sort of High Priestess of Blight,
was a small, gray-haired woman, sitting bolt upright in a basket-chair,
and gazing about in an acidulated manner. This was Lady Anderson. She
had come over--as Isobel had foreseen--manifestly with the intention
of drawing odious comparisons between her own hospital and Isobel's.
She had brought with her two dispirited patients--a sapper major and
an infantry captain--who were both sitting well on the outskirts of
the group. Sir Edward FitzPeter, upon whom Lady Anderson always had an
infuriating effect, had joined these two, in order, like them, to be as
far away from her ladyship as possible.
A terrible silence fell, which was broken only by a whispered remark
from one of the more irrepressible spirits that he was suffering from
"septic melancholia."
It hardly seemed humanly possible that one person could, unaided, have
reduced this usually lighthearted--not to say boisterous--gathering to
such a pitch of gloom. Sister looked as if she might at any moment give
up the unequal contest and burst into tears.
Isobel looked round her miserable party and sighed. She had spent
a strenuous afternoon with the Wet Blanket, and was weary in body
and mind. Lady Anderson had started by inspecting the ground floor
arrangements of the Hospital, and had with diabolical ingenuity
succeeded in finding or inventing some damning flaw in each;
afterwards, it had been the pleasant duty of Isobel and Sister to
exhibit the more intimate and important domestic machinery, and give
their visitor an opportunity of expressing (under a very thin veil of
acid politeness) her disapprobation of their methods here also.
It was a dreary outlook. The only ray of hope that Isobel could see
was in the knowledge that the infliction could not last much longer.
On her arrival the Wet Blanket had announced that she must leave
early, as it appeared she had promised to go and blight somebody else
that afternoon. But tea had not yet come; and Isobel began to fear
that, if the atmosphere progressed in gloom at its present rate, some
of her more nervous patients would be driven to commit suicide in the
ornamental pond.
At last, when nobody but Isobel herself had made the slightest attempt
to speak for nearly five minutes, Barnby, the butler, appeared with
tea, followed by two maids with trays and cake-stands. He was just
in time to save his mistress from committing the social solecism of
uttering a loud scream. He also furnished Lady Anderson with further
material for acid comment.
Fixing her lorgnette (an instrument of torture with which she did dire
execution) on her nose, she eyed the approaching procession with pained
surprise. Then, turning to Isobel, she informed her:
(1) That in her opinion it was a fundamental error to have tea out of
doors. Men did not like it. At _her_ hospital tea invariably took place
indoors, whatever the weather.
(The two dispirited officers she had brought with her caught one
another's eye at this point and exchanged a wan smile.)
(2) That in her opinion it was a fundamental error to run a hospital
with servants. Men did not like it. At _her_ hospital all the work was
done by V.A.D.'S--so much pleasanter.
(Another wan smile, hardly complimentary to the V.A.D.'s,--was
exchanged.)
"But, of course, dear Miss FitzPeter," concluded the lady; "here they
have you. How could they ask more than _that_?"
She left no room for doubt in the minds of her audience that in her
private opinion one could ask a great deal more than that. At that
moment, any one of the thirty or so people present would cheerfully
have drowned or strangled the speaker, but nobody was bold or rash
enough to engage her in wordy warfare. Isobel, heroically preserving a
dogged society smile, was devoutly thankful that Denis was not there to
do battle for her. He would only have made matters infinitely worse.
As it was she was anxious about Sir Edward, who was fidgeting on his
chair, obviously only prevented from an explosion by his sense of duty
as host.
Fortunately a diversion occurred in the shape of the vicar and his
wife, and Isobel breathed an audible sigh of relief. She had little
love for Mrs. Davies, but on this occasion there was nobody whom she
would more gladly have seen, for she knew that the task of entertaining
Lady Anderson would now be transferred to other and enthusiastic hands.
Mrs. Davies had for Lady Anderson a passionate regard almost amounting
to adulation--a regard which the cantankerous old dame made no attempt
to reciprocate. This fact failed utterly to dash Mrs. Davies; snubs
and slights slid off her back like butter from a hot stove, and she
continued on every possible occasion to absorb large quantities of
blacking from Lady Anderson's shoes with every appearance of delight.
On seeing the little, black-clad figure now she rushed forward, hardly
noticing Isobel at all in her eagerness.
"_Dear_ Lady Anderson," she cooed. "How perfectly _delightful_ to see
you and how _sweet_ you look."
Here one of the patients, a callow second-lieutenant with an imperfect
command of feature, guffawed, and had hastily to simulate a painful
cough. Mrs. Davies' choice of epithet was certainly unfortunate, and
Lady Anderson herself appeared to feel this, for she was more than
ordinarily brusque in her manner.
"Umph!" she said. "Sit down, do."
Mrs. Davies obeyed with alacrity and proceeded to take entire
possession of her idol, sitting very far forward on her chair, bending
her body to a servile curve and prefacing every remark with "Dear
Lady Anderson." This treatment appeared to agree with the lady, for
she ceased for the time being to terrorize the assembled company and
allowed herself to be drawn into a conversation in which, while not
going to the length of being amiable, she did at least refrain from
being actively objectionable. Gradually the gloom cleared, until
something like the usual cheery babble was to be heard.
Over her cup of tea Lady Anderson thawed yet more. A sour smile
appeared on her face.
"Well," she said to the vicar's wife, "and what's the latest bit of
gossip in Denmore?"
Mrs. Davies looked pained.
"_Dear_ Lady Anderson," she gushed reproachfully, "you will have your
little joke! You know how I hate gossip of all kinds."
"Yes," said the old lady dryly, "I know."
"But there is one thing about which I think everybody ought to be told.
The Vicar and I have kept silence until now, because--er--because the
time was not ripe."
Isobel leant forward with interest. At last the meaning of the parson's
mysterious visit of the other day was to be cleared up.
"I refer," continued Mrs. Davies firmly, "to...."
Exactly as she had done on the previous occasion, the speaker stopped
suddenly in the middle of her sentence as though an invisible hand had
been clapped over her mouth.
They waited for a space in suspense.
"Well?" said Lady Anderson at last.
"I refer," began Mrs. Davies once more, uneasily, "to...."
Dead silence again. Lady Anderson showed signs of losing her temper,
never her securest possession at the best of times. The prospect of
incurring the great lady's wrath impelled Mrs. Davies to struggle
with the mysterious ban that seemed to be laid upon her speech. Three
more attempts to explain herself did she make; and when the last of
these had failed a kind of hysteria seemed to seize Mrs. Davies. She
mouthed impotently, gasping like a fish, but no sound came forth. Lady
Anderson stared at her in malevolent amazement, while a monstrous
suspicion grew in her mind.
"Are you ill?" she said sharply. It is hard to explain exactly how
she succeeded in making these words, in themselves innocuous, convey
an insinuation of insobriety; but the fact remains that it was clear
to Isobel and Sister (who fortunately were the only spectators of
the scene, the rest having all unostentatiously edged away from Lady
Anderson's sphere of influence) that no other meaning could have been
intended. Indeed, it penetrated even the bemused brain of Mrs. Davies
herself, and completed her demoralization.
She stretched out a shaking hand.
"_Dear_ Lady Anderson," she began.
"Don't touch me," snapped that lady, at last losing all control of her
rising temper. "I will be charitable, Mrs. Davies, and suppose that you
have got a touch of sunstroke; but in any case I will not remain here
to be made a fool of. Good afternoon, Miss FitzPeter."
"Oh, must you really go?" murmured Isobel, with a feeling that it was
too good to be true, and taking care not to allow enough warmth to
creep into her voice to give Lady Anderson any excuse for changing
her mind. Sir Edward bustled forward to perform the highly congenial
duty of seeing the Wet Blanket off the premises; but she declined his
aid and went off in a raging passion, her two cowed and apprehensive
patients following at her heels.
Meanwhile the Vicar, who had mixed with the crowd and had been happily
engaged in discussing cricket with four or five other enthusiasts,
became aware of his wife's voice calling hysterically for him.
"Julian! Julian! Take me home. Where's my husband?"
"Here, my dear," he said, blundering across chairs and tripping over
feet in his haste. "What is it?"
"Take me home!"
"But...."
"It's all right, Mr. Davies," said the quiet voice of Sister in his
ear. "Your wife has been a little upset by Lady Anderson, and I think
she'll feel better at home."
"Dear, dear!" the Vicar muttered in distress. "How unfortunate!"
He knew that life would be difficult for him if Lady Anderson had
really removed the light of her countenance from his wife, and he
sighed as he took her arm and helped her away. She was trembling
violently and her nerves seemed to have failed her altogether for the
time being.
"Oh dear!" said Isobel, sinking back into her chair and watching the
two receding figures. "What a day! Poor Mrs. Davies will never live
this down, I'm afraid! What's going to happen next, I wonder."
She was not allowed to wonder long. As the Davies family reached the
angle of the house, Barnby appeared; behind him came Alf, perspiring
freely with sheer fright; and behind him again came two enormous and
imperturbable negroes, dressed in robes of shimmering cloth of silver,
and bearing each on his head an enormous chased bowl of gold.
The effect of the little cortège on Mrs. Davies was remarkable. She
uttered a loud scream, tore herself free from her husband and shot
round the corner at a run. The Vicar, who had lost his glasses owing to
the violence of his wife's departure, groped wildly for them and then
disappeared in pursuit.
"I believe they really _are_ mad," said Isobel in an undertone to
Sister. Then she came forward once more to greet her new visitor. But
Sir Edward was before her.
"How do you do!" he said heartily. "I needn't ask if you are Mr.
Wentworth--your escort gives you away! I suppose my daughter told you I
was interested in things oriental. How good of you to think of bringing
these fellows for me to see!"
He trotted up to the negroes, who executed a wonderful simultaneous
salaam, after which, rising on to one knee, they held out their bowls
towards him. It was beautifully done; the tea-party, who had quite
forgotten the gloom of the earlier proceedings, and were watching
with all their eyes, felt that they ought to applaud. Sir Edward was
delighted.
"Magnificent!" he said. "And what wonderful bowls! I'd no idea anything
so fine survived."
He lifted one bowl with an effort and examined the chasing.
"Marvelous!" he whispered.
Alf, whose former shyness and apprehension had been dispelled like a
cloud of smoke in a strong wind by his kindly reception, made his first
remark.
"They're for you, sir," he said. "A present."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow, I couldn't possibly...."
But Alf was dismissing his two servitors. They understood his gestures,
and went. Sir Edward determined to leave the question of the bowls
until later. The collector's greed was in his heart, and perhaps if the
fellow was as rich as he seemed he'd never miss them.... Ruminating, he
followed Alf to the tea-table, where Isobel was already filling a cup.
Mr. Wentworth, now quite at his ease, showed a strong desire to sit
by his hostess; but she was still too worn out in mind to cope with
another visitor. She introduced him, therefore, to one or two of the
officers about her and delivered him over to them.
Alf was already--owing to the mystery which enveloped him--a local
celebrity; and now he found himself a popular hero. He was borne off
round the grounds by a small crowd of half-admiring, half-amused young
officers, who extracted a great deal of enjoyment from him while
contriving not to hurt his feelings. He found himself on terms with
them such as he could never have dreamed possible in the days when
he had been a mere private with a conviction that the less he had
to do with the commissioned ranks the better for all classes. He was
encouraged to call captains by their simple surnames and to venture on
familiarities with subalterns; and he played a game of extraordinarily
bad billiards which (more to his own astonishment than his opponents')
he won.
When at last he returned to retrieve his top-hat and to take his leave,
he was jubilant. In the past he had been diffident; but gradually his
confidence in himself and his new powers had grown, until now he was
triumphantly sure of himself. Nothing, he felt, could stand in the
way of such a man as he had shown himself to be. Immense riches, in
themselves, need lead a man nowhere; but immense riches combined with
social success--who could resist them? He had been accepted by these
people as an equal and a friend; from that to being accepted by Isobel
as a lover seemed to his excited brain only a step.
In the veranda stood Isobel herself, talking to her father and another
man. With a slight throb of misgiving Alf recognized Lieutenant
Allen. In his usual diffident frame of mind, he would have avoided
an unnecessary meeting with his old platoon-commander; but now,
intoxicated as he was by success, he greeted a spice of risk. He
approached the group. Both Isobel and Allen looked excited--Alf had
never seen his lady look so desirable, or felt her so approachable.
"'Ow do, Allen?" he said with such an air of jaunty familiarity that
the others stared at him in sheer surprise. "Pleased to see you again,
I'm sure. Well, I ought to be toddlin' off. Never 'ad such a time since
I don't know when. But you'll be sure an' bring Miss Is--Miss FitzPeter
round an' 'ave a bit o' something to eat an' a look round the 'ouse,
won't you, sir? 'Ow about to-morrow?"
Sir Edward, still overflowing with loving kindness towards his
neighbor, and having decided that, come what might, he must keep the
bowls, beamed on him.
"Don't go, Mr. Wentworth," he said.
His daughter looked up sharply and shook her head; Mr. Wentworth was
all very well in his way, but she wanted him on her hands no longer,
now that Denis had returned. But her father did not notice her little
pantomime and blundered genially on.
"Those boys have monopolized you so that I've seen nothing of you. Stay
to dinner, won't you, and afterward--if you'd be so kind--I'll get your
expert opinion on a small article I'm writing on Eastern dress and
architecture."
In his joy at the first part of this invitation, Alf hardly listened to
the second; but his sense of propriety intervened for a moment.
"But I didn't ought ... these clothes...." he began.
"Oh, never mind. You'll do splendidly as you are, eh, Iso?"
Thus appealed to, Isobel had only one course open to her.
"Do stay, Mr. Wentworth," she said perfunctorily.
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Alf gallantly. His heart glowed. Here was a
wonderful opportunity. If only he could get rid of Allen, and make some
real impression on Isobel ... how could he get rid of Allen ...?
This question occupied him as he went with them to explore a tangled
wilderness in a part of the garden he had not yet seen. If only he
could tip the wink to Isobel, it ought to be easy for them to slip away
from the intrusive Allen ... could he?
He suddenly found, with some perturbation, that he was alone. He had
been busy with his thoughts and had not noticed which way the others
had gone. He hunted for a time--and fell into the arms of a group of
exuberant youths who insisted on bearing him off to learn clock-golf.
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile, Denis and Isobel, panting from their sudden and inexcusable
dash through the tangled undergrowth, had reached a sequestered retreat
known as the Dutch garden. Allen drew from his pocket a small parcel.
"I thought we'd never get rid of the fellow," he said. "I've got it,
darling--a little beauty. Let's see if it fits."