The red carpet stretched from the doors of the great house in the walled
garden to the broad pavement where South Street meets North Street and
Grosvenor Square is but a step in the right direction; and up the red
carpet walked the flower of England’s quality and fashion and the
loftiest dignitaries of the Church and Press. Came, too, all the
circumstance of diplomacy and the first among the burgesses. Decorations
were worn. Art and literature were represented only by a painter with a
beard who had forgotten to wear a tie, a young reporter with a boil on
his neck, and a rugged novelist with a large circulation who liked
hunting. Came, too, all the first actors of the day, talking about
themselves to each other and thinking about each other to themselves.
All the most intelligent young ladies of Society were present, murmuring
hoarsely to each other: “One really cannot understand _how_ one can come
to a party when one might be reading a book by Maurice Baring.”
Footlight favourites by Royal Appointment. Astorias and his band of the
Loyalty Club were engaged to play. The reception given to the honourable
company in every way accorded with the ancient dignity of the Grand
Duchy of Valeria. The guests passed between two lines of the Hussars of
Death or Honour, brilliant in white uniforms with crimson facings,
epaulettes of gold and cloaks of black gabardine lined with ermine,
under the command of Baron Hugo von Müsselsaroffsir. Champagne by G. H.
Mumm.
Not among the last to arrive was my lord Viscount Quorn, a young
nobleman whose handsome looks and plausible address were fated to be as
a snare and a delusion to those who were not immediately informed as to
his disordered temperament and irregular habits. Yet, although many a
pretty young lady had lived to regret with burning tears the confidence
she had been persuaded to misplace in that young gallant’s code of
chivalry, not a man in England could be found to impugn my lord’s
honour; for was he not renowned from Ranelagh to Meadowbrook for his
incomparable agility, did not Australian cricketers wince at the mere
mention of the name of Quorn, and did any soldier present on the high
occasion we tell of wear pinned across his breast braver emblems of
gallantry in war?
With him to the Duke’s ball came his boon companion, Mr. Woodhouse
Adams, a gentleman whose claim to the regard of his familiars was based
solidly on the fact that he knew a horse when he saw one; yet so great
was his reserve that what he knew when he did not see a horse was a
secret which Mr. Woodhouse Adams jealously guarded from even his most
intimate friends. On this occasion, however, as they walked up the red
carpet to the open doors of the house in the walled garden, Mr.
Woodhouse Adams appeared to be unable to control a particular
indignation, and presently spoke to the following effect:
“If you ask my opinion, Condor, I think you are putting your jaws into
the lion’s head.”
“I gather,” said Lord Quorn, whose nickname took the peculiar form of
Condor for reasons which are quite foreign to this story, “that you mean
I am putting my head into the lion’s jaws. It may be so. But I tell you,
Charles, that I am in love with this girl. At last, I am in love. And I
am not going to miss the most slender chance of seeing her again--not to
speak of my desire to take this unrivalled opportunity of paying my
respects to her father with a view to a matrimonial entanglement.”
“You’re not going to do that!” incredulously cried his friend.
“Almost at once,” said Lord Quorn.
“Gentlemen’s Cloak-Room on the left,” said a Hussar of Death or Honour.
“Am I speaking to milord Quorn?” asked a page bearing a salver of gold.
“You are, boy.”
“Then I have the honour, milord, to be the bearer of a note to milord
from my mistress, Her Select Highness the Princess Baba.”
“Well, don’t shout the glad news all over the Cloak-Room,” said Mr.
Woodhouse Adams.
“Go tell Her Highness,” said my lord to the boy, “that I shall beg the
honour of the first dance with her.”
“Milord, I go!” said the page, and went.
“I don’t like that boy,” said Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“This note,” said Lord Quorn, “touches me very nearly.”
“Good Lord, Condor, she doesn’t want to borrow money from you already!
Gad, my father was right when he told me on his death-bed never to have
any financial dealings with Royalty. His exact words were: ‘It takes
four Greeks to get the better of a Jew, three Jews to deal with an
Armenian, two Armenians to a Scot, and the whole damn lot together to
withstand the shock of Royalty in search of real-estate.’”
“My friend, there is but a line in this letter, yet I would not exchange
this one line for all the rhapsodies of the poets. For in this one
line,” sighed Lord Quorn, “the Princess Baba tells me that she loves
me.”
“No girl,” gallantly admitted his friend, “can say fairer than that.”
“It is certainly very encouraging,” said my lord.
“Gentlemen’s Cloak-Room to the right!” said a Hussar of Death or
Honour.
“Thank you, we’ve been,” said Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“This way, _messieurs_!” said Baron Hugo von Müsselsaroffsir. “His
Highness the Hereditary Grand Duke of Valeria will receive you at the
head of the stairs.”
At the head of the stairs, indeed, His Highness was receiving his guests
with all the circumstance of Royalty. He held great state, this puissant
prince who had so notably enriched the land of his fathers by an heroic
neutrality throughout the war. He wore the blue cordon of the Order of
Credit and, over his heart, the Diamond Cross of Discretion. He said:
“How do you do, Lord Quorn?”
“Thank you, sir, I am very well,” returned my lord.
“And you, Mr. Woodhouse Eves?”
“Adams to you, sir,” said that gentleman. “But otherwise I am well,
thank you.”
“Lord Quorn,” His Highness cordially continued, “I am really most
pleased that you could accept my invitation.”
“You do me too much honour, sir. And may I take it that your courtesy in
selecting me for an invitation for your probably enjoyable ball is a
sign of your gracious forgiveness?”
“You may, Lord Quorn.”
“Then I have the honour, sir, to declare myself, without any reserve
whatsoever, to be your Highness’s most obedient servant.”
“And I, sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“Gentlemen,” said His Highness, “you are very kind.”
“Your condescension, sir, but points our crudity,” protested my lord.
“May I, however, further trespass on your indulgence by asking to be
allowed to enroll myself as the humblest among your daughter’s suitors?”
“We can talk this matter out more comfortably,” said His Highness
agreeably, “in my study. Ho, there! Ho, page!”
“_Altesse!_”
“Conduct milord Quorn and Mr. Woodhouse Eves to my study, and see to it
that they have suitable refreshment. Lord Quorn, I will join you not a
moment after I have received my guests.”
“I’m not sure I like this study business,” said Mr. Woodhouse Adams as
they followed the page through many halls and corridors to a distant
part of the house in the walled garden. They passed through marble halls
radiant with slender columns and crystal fountains, through arcades
flaming with flowers in vases of Venetian glass, beneath sombre
tapestries of the chase after fabulous beasts, by tables of satinwood
and cabinets of ebony, jade and pearl: until at last they were conducted
to a quiet-seeming door, and were no sooner within than what appeared to
be a regiment of Hussars of Death or Honour had pinioned their arms to
their sides.
“This is outrage!” cried my lord with very cold eyes.
“Gentlemen, you are under arrest,” said an officer with moustachios
whose name the chronicler has unfortunately overlooked.
“We’re under what?” cried Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“And you will await His Highness’s pleasure in this room,” said the
officer with moustachios, but he had no sooner spoken than the Duke
entered, followed by a lean young officer with pitiless eyes.
“_Altesse!_” saluted the Hussars of Death or Honour.
Not so Lord Quorn. “Sir,” cried he, “this is outrage and assault on the
persons of King George’s subjects. Do you forget that you are in
England, sir?”
“Silence!” thundered the officer with moustachios.
“Silence be damned!” cried Mr. Woodhouse Adams. “Your Highness, what can
this piracy mean? I wish to lodge a formal complaint.”
“Sir, take it as lodged,” said His Highness graciously, but it was with
lowered brows that he turned to address my lord.
“Lord Quorn,” said he, “it was my first intention to have you shot like
a dog. But I have suffered myself to be dissuaded from consigning you to
that ignominious fate at the intercession of this gentleman here. I
present Captain Count Rupprecht Saxemünden von Maxe-Middengräfen.”
“Oh, have a heart!” gasped Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
But Lord Quorn, being a much-travelled gentleman whose ears were
hardened against the most surprising sounds, merely said: “How do you
do?”
“Such information, sir, is not for scum!” snapped the lean young officer
with the pitiless eyes.
“Were I to hit you once,” said Lord Quorn gently, looking at him as
though he smelt so bad that he could readily understand why the dustman
had refused to remove him, “your mother would not know you. Were I to
hit you twice, she would not want to. Think it over.”
“Your differences will soon be arranged,” sternly continued His
Highness. “Count Rupprecht has very properly put before me certain
reasons which give him an undoubted right to be the agent of your
destruction. The course of this night, Lord Quorn, shall see you as a
duellist. And I can only hope that you have some knowledge of
swordsmanship, for Count Rupprecht Saxemünden von Maxe-Middengräfen is
the first swordsman of Valeria.
“I may add, Lord Quorn, that his engagement to the Princess Baba will be
formally announced immediately after your interment, which will take
place in a corner of the garden. That is already arranged. Also your
death will be accounted for to the authorities in a satisfactory way.
Mr. Woodhouse Eves will, no doubt, act as your second. I will now leave
you until such time as the ball is at its height, when there will be
little chance of any of my guests being distracted by the ring of steel
in the garden. _Au revoir_, milord. You will yet find that to deflower a
maid is a dangerous sport. Count Rupprecht, your arm to the ball-room!”
“_Altesse!_” saluted the Hussars of Death or Honour.
“And what a mess!” sighed Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“I’ll have to kill that boy,” said Lord Quorn thoughtfully.