DEFEATED by the absurdity of the situation Lord Duckingfield suddenly
ended his interview with Miss Cass. He still had a desire to chastise
her. But there were certain reservations in his mind in regard to the
little donkey. She had been inconceivably weak, inconceivably foolish,
inconceivably vain; nevertheless it was the real Lady Elfreda who must
be asked to pay the bill. Even the indignant fancy of my lord hardly
knew how to paint the wanton cynicism of that young woman.
In the midst of the preposterous scene with the incredible Miss Cass
the angry gentleman felt a craving for fresh air. He warded off that
lady’s threat of hysteria by turning his back upon her and striding
to the hall door. Let him banish her from his mind--at any rate until
he had been able to think over the matter in all its bearings and
he had made some attempt to adjust his mental processes to a quite
unparalleled affair.
However, as he learned all too soon, even that modest program was not
going to be easy to fulfill. For as he came to the hall door he found
himself in the midst of flurry and commotion. The Park omnibus was in
the act of arrival from the station. With pomp and circumstance it had
just drawn up to the threshold and was solemnly disgorging a really
imposing vision on to the front steps.
The honest Duckingfield, confronted by a purple visage with a monocle
glowing in the middle, an overcoat trimmed with astrachan and a superb
expanse of buff gaiter, had to take a very tight hold upon himself.
The worthy Midlander was not in any way a brilliant fellow, but five
and forty years of traffic with the world had imbued him with a keen
sense of the human comedy. This somewhat superlative arrival of Lady
Elfreda’s father cast quite a strain upon his resources.
“Hallo, Ducks!” Lord Carabbas offered the large and genial hand of his
race. “Good of you to send that wire. How’s that unfortunate girl of
mine?”
“Oh, better--she’s much better.” But the eye of Ducks was a little
evasive; anyhow, it sedulously avoided the eye of the noble marquis.
“Devilish glad to hear it.” Paterfamilias appeared to be greatly
relieved. “I thought from your wire, that she was in for a bad time.
Been overdoing it, evidently.”
“Ye-es, overdoing it--been overdoing it.” Ducks again avoided the eye
of the anxious parent.
“Great strain, these theatrical performances, hey?”
“No doubt.”
“Hope she hasn’t upset the whole house.”
“Oh, no--not at all.” Ducks drew on his reserve of conventional
politeness.
“Well, I’ll go and have a look at ’Freda. See you anon.”
Lord Carabbas passed into the house. Lord Duckingfield passed out of
it. Perhaps it was a pity some imp of mischief did not prompt the
worthy Midlander to stay and witness the progress of his distinguished
friend. Lord Carabbas, a mass of judicious pomp and fair weather
geniality, waddled slowly across the hall parquet. En route he passed a
pretty little girl shivering by the log fire in the lee of the stairs.
The gallant Irishman, with an unrivaled eye for female charms, noted
her with a smile of approval.
It was a dank morning of November, but for nearly an hour the man from
the Midlands traipsed solemnly round the park. His mind was in strange
disorder; the oddest things were happening in it, but amid the flux of
thought one phrase slowly crystallized. And the phrase was significant.
“If she belonged to me,” it ran, “by gad, I think I know what I should
like to do with her.” And the grip of a very honest man tightened on
the stout ash plant in his hand.