THE anxieties of the day had not improved the nerves of Miss Cass.
They were a little frayed, no doubt, when she was led in to dinner
on the arm of the genial, loud-voiced host. Mr. Minever was a great
one for chaff and there was something about poor Girlie’s woe-begone
appearance that was a direct challenge to his powers. Had the Bartlet’s
masterpiece proved too much for her? If the little man wrote as he
talked she was a very wise young woman, in Mr. Minever’s opinion, to
keep her bed in order to grapple with his dialogue. Sir Toby laughed
brightly at all the sallies which reached his end of the table, where
the luckless yellow chrysanthemum lady and Mrs. Spencer-Jobling were
bearing up with superhuman patience. Still, it has to be said for Sir
Toby that he was a little sportsman in his way.
From time to time, as the noisily cheerful meal went on, Sir Toby stole
a glance down the table at the innocent cause of the mirth. She really
was nailingly pretty, although her color was so high this evening that
it could hardly be her own. The little man grew pensive, not to say
distrait. By the time the port appeared it had begun to seem rather a
pity that Carabbas notoriously “hadn’t a bob.” Still Grandpapa Angora
was on his last legs according to all accounts, and even if keeping
up a dukedom was becoming an expensive hobby and supertax was now on
a very democratic basis, the head of the clan must surely have kept a
little bit in the family stocking just to bring them in out of the rain.
Indeed, that seemed quite a fascinating speculation as Sir Toby
preened his small tail feathers and held the door for the ladies
to file cheerfully and jauntily out of the room. But one there was
neither jaunty nor cheerful. She was a duke’s granddaughter it was
true, but she was so timid and demure that she might have been a
nursery governess. Her one desire, seemingly, was to efface herself
altogether. And yet, as Sir Toby reflected, there _is_ something to be
said after all for pedigree stock. These Sheffielders--or was it Leeds
they came from?--with their familiarity, their badinage, their amazing
self-confidence, how tiresome they were! The little Catkin Puss might
be dull--dull as a mud fence--but when the worst had been said, she was
a Lady!
“Penny for your thoughts, Philpot.” The loud-voiced host emphasized
this speculative offer by pushing his so-called 1890 towards Sir Toby.
“Worth a sight more than that, ain’t they, Pot?” quoth a puffy man
opposite with a face as red as a boiled lobster. And then, to Sir
Toby’s unspeakable annoyance, he winked impudently at the others. “But
I’m bound to say I admire your taste.”
The retort which rose to the long suffering lips of Sir Toby was, “I
wish I could return the compliment!” That would have been a fit reply
to one who always made a point of treating him as if he were still in
Puppyhole. His tormentor, one Garden by name, was a man of some parts,
but in the course of a rather hopeless life, having done most things
and most people, he had steadily declined in the world’s esteem, until
now there was only dramatic criticism, occasional journalism and the
tolerance of club acquaintances between the jail, the poorhouse and
himself.
Soft, however, was Sir Toby’s answer. This same Garden had once kicked
him round Sixpenny, and although the experience had not done him as
much good as it might have, the little baronet had a deep-seated desire
that it should never happen again.
The host, however, that prince of crude fellows whose size in dancing
pumps was a large ten, lost no time in putting his foot still deeper
in the mire. Before Sir Toby could deal efficiently with his ancient
foe, Mr. Minever had coarsely guffawed, “So does Duckingfield.” At this
breach of taste on the part of the host, Sir Toby glared. And the new
peer glared also.
“I _fink_ you are up for the O. B. H.,” said Sir Toby in tones that
would have re-frozen an icicle.
The host grinned at Garden. “Means he’s going to see about pilling me,
eh?”
Said that worthy, “If he does, you’ll get in for sure.”
“S-s-sh! Don’t give it away!” Again the host grinned at Garden. “But,
seriously, she’s as pretty as pretty. And I’m willing to lay a hundred
to ten she gets off before next season.”
Ruefully and wrathfully reflected Sir Toby, “This man Minever doesn’t
begin to be Sahib. An awful pity we are not stayin’ with somebody else.
However....”
As for my lord of Duckingfield, whose hostile gaze was short-circuiting
Sir Toby’s inmost thoughts, he too was nursing an almost savage
antagonism. “Like to punch his head for him”--that was its formula.
But whose head it was that the honest and forthright Midlander yearned
to punch was not exactly clear. He certainly glared at the host as the
desire passed through his mind, but with even greater intensity he
glared at Sir Toby.
Howbeit, Sir Toby returned the gesture with interest. The little
man had been only too quick to read the thought in the mind of the
presumptuous maker of munitions. How dare this newest of new men lift
his eyes to a duke’s granddaughter?
To some minds it is not the least of the advantages pertaining to an
old title that it is competent to ask these questions!