THE WAYS OF MAYFAIR
“They say,” announced Dormer Greetland, with the seriousness befitting
an important pronouncement, “that Countess Alexia is going to marry
Herriard.”
“One is scarcely surprised to hear it,” Lady Rotherfield commented in
a non-committal tone. Having once got down on the wrong side of the
fence, she had climbed up again to her perch, and was disposed to sit
there and argue that her rash descent had not been altogether unwise.
“But is it true?”
“Quite proper,” laughed the shrill voice of Baron de Daun, “that
Perseus should marry Andromeda. It is true? Of course it is the natural
thing for people to say.”
“I have it on the best authority,” was the Mayfair newsman’s somewhat
vague reply. “Naturally it was the first thing we should be told.
But one would hardly accept the banal chatter of irresponsible
outsiders. No, dear lady, you will find it authentic now. I might
have told you the news a fortnight ago, but then it was merely in the
air. To-day----” He gave a shrug as though they would discredit his
imprimatur at their peril.
“Well, I should say there is something in it,” Sir Perrott Aspall
declared. “I was talking to Dick Josselyn at the Club just now, and he
tells me that Herriard is returning all his briefs.”
“Really?” exclaimed Lady Rotherfield, trying to gauge the significance
of the last piece of news.
“That looks as though something were in the wind,” de Daun suggested.
“Yes,” put in Greetland. “Herriard wouldn’t accept a brief for poor
Lady Ranower. She had set her heart upon retaining him for her appeal.”
This was pure invention; but its author could not have it supposed that
Sir Perrott’s announcement was news to him.
“I suppose it will be a quiet affair?” Lady Rotherfield was alluding to
Alexia’s marriage, not to Lady Ranower’s appeal.
“I should hope so,” Greetland replied charitably. “Between ourselves,
one can scarcely call the Countess quite re-established.”
“Ah, well,” observed Lady Rotherfield, still hedging, “a very suitable
match. Mr. Herriard is quite a somebody.”
“Oh, yes,” said de Daun, who had taken recent opportunities of
cultivating Herriard on the strength of his coming position in the
world. “But why should he return his briefs, eh? Is that the fashion
here when one is to be married?”
“Hardly,” laughed Sir Perrott. “Unless one is in a great hurry.”
“Ah, that is it, you may depend,” said Greetland. “It is coming off at
once. By to-night I shall know all about it. A long honeymoon to wear
out an attenuating scandal.”
“I wish,” said Lady Rotherfield presently to Greetland in a
confidential corner, “one knew exactly what to do about poor Countess
Alexia. It is so very awkward. What line are people taking? Do advise
me.”
“Lady Kilvinton calls,” the smart authority declared, somewhat with the
air of a dogmatic stockbroker advising a client as to her investments.
“And yesterday when I was in Green Street I saw two carriages outside
the house. I was on the other side, but I think--I’m pretty sure--the
Ramplingham crest was on one of them.”
“H’m!” Lady Rotherfield pursed her lips meditatively. “You don’t go
there yourself?” she asked shrewdly.
He shrugged. “I haven’t had a moment to go anywhere, except where I
have been booked; and then, as it is, have been able to keep only half
my engagements,” he replied, with weary plausibility. “You know, dear
lady, what a rush there always is towards the end of the season. Oh,
no; I don’t mean to drop the von Rohnburgs. Count Prosper is a very
decent fellow; and I always liked Lady Alexia. She is so interesting,
and her breeding is perfect, which is more than one can say for all
foreigners. That appalling Lady Beeman, for instance, _née_ Goldknecht,
who, I should say, came out of the Judengasse originally. No; when one
comes back from Homburg and the country-house round, which, by the way,
promises to be severely trying this autumn, I shall certainly give our
friends in Green Street a call. They will hardly expect a busy man to
do more this side of November than leave a card.”
“Then you think,” Lady Rotherfield said, with a certain clearing of
doubt, “that one may venture to take them up again?”
“I see no risk now, dear lady, or I would not let you do it,” the
cotillon-expert assured her, this time with the air of a doctor
pronouncing a patient at last free from infection. “You see, Herriard
is bound to come on; he is quite pointed out and listened to in the
House; and the Countess is bound to have a large _dot_. Yes; they will
have to be reckoned with when they have settled down, and the nine
days’ wonder is conveniently forgotten. With her style and _nous_
theirs is quite likely to be one of the smart houses to go to, and if
he got to the front Bench her receptions might attain the dignity of a
_salon_.”
Lady Rotherfield was beginning to wonder whether she had not sat too
long on the fence. “You really think that?” she murmured uncomfortably.
Then went on almost beseechingly, “Mr. Greetland, you know one hates to
do the wrong thing. Do you think it would look odd if one sent these
dear people a card for next Tuesday? You know I am having some music;
Marzoni has promised to sing, and I am trying to get Tarbosch; only
these tiresome musical people give themselves such provoking airs. Is
it too late?”
Greetland appeared to reflect. “H’m! How long have the cards been out?”
“Nearly a month,” the lady answered, with a little rueful grimace.
“One has to make refusals as difficult as possible in these days of
competition.”
“Just so,” Greetland assented. “Poor Mrs. Pelham Steinthal never sends
her cards out less than six weeks ahead.”
“Naturally. A deplorable woman like that. I’m afraid even that
precaution does not prevent the refusals.”
“No. But if she gets one acceptance in eight she considers she has done
extremely well. And the poor woman is really improving. I have edited
her list for her.”
“A pleasant task! But you are always so sweet.”
“It was a labour of Hercules; especially as one had never heard of
quite two-thirds of the people; and when I enquired who in the world
they were, the tiresome woman would hold a brief for the distressing
unknowns.”
“She might have concluded,” observed Lady Rotherfield graciously, “that
any one unknown to Mr. Dormer Greetland was not worth knowing.”
The arbiter of social pretension accepted the compliment as no more
than his due. “Well, I had at last to act on that assumption,” he said
acquiescently. “Arguing the value of various unknown quantities became
fatiguing. It took me quite half-an-hour’s hard lecturing to make the
absurd woman understand that a merely rich hostess, to be a success,
must never receive any but her social superiors. Equals and inferiors
in such a case give away the show at once.”
“Ah, yes,” Lady Rotherfield agreed, with a half sigh; “people of
that sort cannot be too careful. Unfortunately they will not realize
the fact that it is as much as we can do to tolerate them singly; in
battalions they are utterly overpowering. Now, Mr. Greetland, about the
poor Countess Alexia. Do you think one might venture?”
With a slightly obvious effort Greetland brought his mind back to the
subject from which it had strayed. “Well,” he said judicially, “I think
you might. You must chance their not having heard of your reception,
with other things to occupy their minds. You might scribble an excuse
for short notice; say you have had unheard-of difficulties with your
fiddler.”
“Oh, thank you so much, dear Mr. Greetland; it is truly sweet of
you. I’ll do that at once. Yes; these wretched fiddlers and their
exasperating ways have their uses sometimes. I hope you are coming, Mr.
Greetland?”
A cloud crossed the face which was to so many hostesses the social sun.
“I am engaged a hundred deep for Tuesday,” he smiled protestingly,
“but I’ll do my best. You might let me know, dear lady, if Tarbosch is
really coming to play for you. I just missed him at Lady Llanthony’s
the other night, and one must be able to say one has heard him.”
“I’ll make the wretch decide, and then send you a wire,” she promised.
Greetland rose. He had given Lady Rotherfield more of the light of his
complacent countenance than was quite her due, and should be moving
round in his orbit to illuminate and attract the rest of the world. A
man passed him with a nod and a casual remark. Greetland turned back to
Lady Rotherfield.
“Talking of our friends in Green Street,” he said, “that man has been
having an uncomfortable time over the Vaux House affair.”
“He? Who?” the lady asked, putting up her glasses.
Greetland looked up at her with a suspicion of pitying contempt. Really
she was, considering her position, very stupid and ill-informed. He had
indeed been wasting his time with her, and made a mental note that he
would try and hear Tarbosch somewhere else than under her irritating
auspices.
“Don’t you know?” he asked, almost tartly. “Aubrey Playford. It is
an open secret that he denounced the Countess Alexia to the _Daily
Comet_. Had recognized the dagger hair-pin as being hers, and so got
them into all this trouble. They say he and Brailsford nearly came to
blows in the Park last Sunday over the affair. Of course Brailsford
is trying to whitewash himself with the mob, and particularly to get
back into certain houses where he is no longer asked. They say old Lord
Clovelly threatened to kick him into Piccadilly if he showed his face
at Bude House again. So he thought the best move would be to horsewhip
Playford, just to show his _bona fides_.”
“How amusing!” Lady Rotherfield made a mental tick against that
enterprising editor’s name. “But, tell me, why did Mr. Playford accuse
the poor Countess Alexia?”
Greetland smiled significantly. “Surely you can guess the reason, dear
lady,” he replied, with a trace of impatience. “No need to _chercher la
femme_ when she is already there.”
“Ah, just so. A case of pique. But what bad form.”
“So every one thinks.”
“I believe I have asked him for Tuesday. How awkward! Still, he is
here. I always thought Lady Polloxfen so particular.”
Greetland gave a smile of superior insight. “So she is, dear lady;
but you must remember that Aubrey Playford is heir presumptive to his
cousin’s title, and the Stainford property is practically bound to go
with it.”
“To be sure!” Lady Rotherfield’s brow cleared once more. And presently
when, by accident or design, she encountered that eligible sneak, she
begged him with her sweetest smile not to forget he was engaged to her
for Tuesday when that delightful Tarbosch was positively going to play.