THE WOULD-BE BROTHER-IN-LAW
The next morning, bright and early, Mr. Alfred Rodney, a telegram in his
hand, charged down the hall to Mrs. Medcroft's door. With characteristic
Far West impulsiveness he banged on the door. A sleepy voice asked who
was there.
"It's me--Rodney. Get up. I want to see Medcroft. Say, Roxbury, wake
up!"
"Roxbury?" came in shrill tones from within. "He--Isn't he upstairs?
Good heaven, Mr. Rodney, what has happened? What _has_ happened?"
"Upstairs? What the deuce is he doing upstairs?"'
"He's--he's sleeping! Do tell me what's the matter?"
"Isn't this Mr. Medcroft's room?"
"Ye-es--but he isn't in. He objects to the noise. Oh, has anything
happened to Roxbury?" She was standing just inside the door, and her
voice betrayed agitation.
"My dear Edith, don't get excited. I have a telegram from--"
She uttered a shriek.
"He's been assassinated! Oh, Roxbury!"
"What the dev--Are you crazy? It's a telegram from ----"
"Oh, heavens! I knew they'd kill him--I knew something dreadful would
happen if I left--" Here she stopped suddenly. He distinctly heard her
catch her breath. After a moment she went on warily: "Is it from a man
named Hobart?"
"No! It's from Odell-Carney. Hobart? I don't know anybody named Hobart."
(How was he to know that Hobart was the name that Medcroft had chosen
for correspondence purposes?) "We're to meet the Odell-Carneys to-day in
Munich. No time to be lost. We've got to catch the nine o'clock train."
"Oh!" came in great relief from the other side of the door. Then, in
sudden dismay: "But I can't do it! The idea of getting up at an hour
like this!"
"What room is Roxbury in?"
"I--_don't_ KNOW!!" in very decided tones. "Inquire at the
office!"
Alfred Rodney was a persevering man. It is barely possible that he
occupied a lower social plane than that attained by his wife, but he was
a man of accomplishment, if not accomplishments. He always did what he
set out to do. Be it said in defence of this assertion, he not only
routed out his entire protesting flock, but had them at the West-Bahnhof
in time to catch the Orient Express--luggage, accessories, and all. Be
it also said that he was the only one in the party, save Constance and
Tootles, who took to the situation amiably.
"Damn the Odell-Carneys," was what Freddie Ulstervelt said as the train
drew out of the station. Brock looked up approvingly.
"That's the first sensible thing I've heard him say," he muttered loud
enough to be heard by Miss Fowler. "I say, who are the Odell-Carneys?
First I've heard of 'em."
"The Odell-Carneys? Oh, dear, have you never heard of them?" she cried
in surprise. He felt properly rebuked. "They are very swell Londoners.
It is said--"
"Then, good heavens, they'll know I'm not Medcroft," he whispered in
alarm.
"Not at all, my dear Roxbury. That's just where you're wrong. They don't
know Roxbury the first. I've gone over it all with Edith. She's just
crazy to get into the Odell-Carney set. I regret to say that they have
failed to notice the Medcrofts up to this time. Secretly, Edith has
ambitions. She has gone to the Lord Mayor's dinners and to the Royal
Antiquarians and to Sir John Rodney's and a lot of other functions on
the outer rim, but she's never been able to break through the crust and
taste the real sweets of London society. My dear Roxbury, the
Odell-Carneys entertain the nobility without compunction, and they've
been known to hobnob with royalty. Mrs. Odell-Carney was a Lady
Somebody-or-other before she married the second time. She's terribly
smart, Roxbury."
"How, in the name of heaven, do they happen to be hobnobbing, as you
call it, with the Rodneys, may I ask?"
"Well, it seems that Odell-Carney is promoting a new South African
mining venture. I have it from Freddie Ulstervelt that he's trying to
sell something like a million shares to Mr. Rodney, who has loads of
money that came from real mines in the Far West. He'd never be such a
fool as to sink a million in South Africa, you know, but he's just
clever enough to see the advantage of keeping Odell-Carney in tow, as it
were. It means a great deal to Mrs. Rodney, don't you know, Roxbury, to
be able to say that she toured with the Odell-Carneys. Freddie says
that Cousin Alfred is talking in a very diplomatic manner of going on to
London in August to look fully into the master. It is understood that
the Rodneys are to be the guests of the Odell-Carneys while in London.
It won't be the season, of course, so there won't be much of a commotion
in the smart set. It is our dear Edith's desire to slip into the charmed
circle through the rift that the Rodneys make. Do you comprehend?"
They were seated side by side in the corner of the compartment, his
broad back screening her as much as possible from the persistent glances
of Freddie Ulstervelt, who was nobly striving to confine his attentions
to Katherine. Brock's eyes were devouring her exquisite face with a
greediness that might have caused her some uneasiness if there had not
been something pleasantly agreeable in his way of doing it.
"Yes--faintly," he replied, after an almost imperceptible conflict
between the senses of sight and hearing. "But how does she intend to
explain me away? I'll be a dreadful skeleton in her closet if it comes
to that. When she is obliged to produce the real Roxbury, what then?"
"She's thought it all out, Roxbury," said Constance severely but almost
inaudibly. "I'm sure Freddie heard part of what you said. Do be careful.
She's going to reveal the whole plot to Mrs. Odell-Carney just as soon
as Roxbury gives the word--treating it as a very clever and necessary
ruse, don't you see. Mrs. Odell-Carney will be implored to aid in the
deception for a few days, and she'll consent, because she's really quite
a bit of a sport. At the psychological moment the Rodneys will be told.
That places Mrs. Odell-Carney in the position of being an abettor or
accomplice: she's had the distinction of being a sharer in a most
glorious piece of strategy. Don't you see how charmingly it will all
work in the end?"
"What are you two whispering about?" demanded Freddie Ulstervelt
noisily, patience coming to an end.
"Wha--what the devil is that to--" began Brock furiously. Constance
brought him up sharp with a warning kick on the ankle. He vowed
afterward that he would carry the mark to his grave.
"He's telling me what a nice chap you are, Freddie," said she sweetly.
Brock glared out of the window. Freddie sniffed scornfully.
"I'm getting sick of this job," growled Brock under his breath. "I
didn't calculate on--"
"Now, Roxbury dear, don't be a bear," she pleaded so gently, her eyes so
full of appeal, that he flushed with sudden shame and contrition.
"Forgive me," he said, the old light coming back into his eyes so
strongly that she quivered for an instant before lowering her own. "I
hate that confounded puppy," he explained lamely, guarding his voice
with a new care. "If you felt as I do, you would too."
She laughed in the old way, but she was not soon to forget that moment
when panic was so imminent.
"I--I don't see how anyone can help liking Freddie," she said, without
actually knowing why. He stared hard at the Danube below. After a long
silence he said,--
"It's all tommy-rot about it being blue, isn't it?"
She was also looking at the dark brown, swollen river that has been
immortalised in song.
"It's never blue. It's always a yellow-ochre, it seems to me."
He waited a long time before venturing to express the thought that of
late had been troubling him seriously.
"I wonder if you truly realise the difficulty Edith will have in
satisfying an incredulous world with her absolutely truthful story.
She'll have to explain, you know. There's bound to be a sceptic or two,
my dear Constance."
"But there's Roxbury," she protested, her face clouding nevertheless.
"_He_ will set everything right."
"The world will say he is a gullible fool," said he gently. "And the
world always laughs at, not with, a fool. Alas, my dear sister, it's a
very deep pool we're in." He leaned closer and allowed a quaint,
half-bantering, wholly diffident smile to cross his face. "I--I'm afraid
that you are the only being on earth who can make the story thoroughly
plausible."
"I?" she demanded quickly. Their eyes met, and the wonder suddenly left
hers. She blushed furiously. "Nonsense!" she said, and abruptly left him
to take a seat beside Katherine Rodney. He found small comfort in the
whisperings and titterings that came, willy-nilly, to his burning ears
from the corner of the compartment. He had a disquieting impression that
they were discussing him; it was forced in upon him that being a
brother-in-law is not an enviable occupation.
"Wot?" he asked, almost fiercely, after the insistent Freddie had thrice
repeated a question.
"I say, will you have a cigaret?" half shouted Freddie, exasperated.
"Oh! No, thanks. The train makes such a beastly racket, don't you know."
"They told me at the Bristol you were deaf, but--Oh, I say, old man, I'm
sorry. Which ear is it?"
"The one next to you," replied Brock, recovering from his confusion. "I
hear perfectly well with the other one."
"Yes," drawled Freddie, with a wink, "so I've observed." After a
reflective silence the young man ventured the interesting conclusion,
"She's a stunning girl, all right." Brock looked polite askance. "By
Jove, I'm glad she isn't _my_ sister-in-law."
"I suppose I'm expected to ask why," frigidly.
"Certainly. Because, if she was, I _couldn't_. Do you get the point?" He
crossed his legs and looked insupportably sure of himself.
They reached Munich late in the afternoon and went at once to the Hotel
Vier Jahretzeiten, where they were to find the Odell-Carneys.
Mr. Odell-Carney was a middle-aged Englishman of the extremely
uninitiative type. He was tall and narrow and distant, far beyond what
is commonly accepted as _blasé_; indeed, he was especially slow of
speech, even for an Englishman, quite as if it were an everlasting
question with him whether it was worth while to speak at all. One had
the feeling when listening to Mr. Odell-Carney that he was being
favoured beyond words; it took him so long to say anything, that, if one
were but moderately bright, he could finish the sentence mentally some
little time in advance of the speaker, and thus be prepared to properly
appreciate that which otherwise might have puzzled him considerably. It
could not be said, however, that Mr. Odell-Carney was ponderous; he was
merely the effectual result of delay. Perhaps it is safe to agree with
those who knew him best; they maintained that Odell-Carney was a pose,
nothing more.
His wife was quite the opposite in nearly every particular, except
height and angularity. She was bony and red-faced and opinionated. A few
sallow years with a rapid, profligate nobleman had brought her, in
widowhood, to a fine sense of appreciation of the slow-going though
tiresomely unpractical men of the Odell-Carney type. It mattered little
that he made poor investment of the money she had sequestered from his
lordship; he had kept her in the foreground by associating himself with
every big venture that interested the financial smart set.
Notwithstanding the fact that he never was known to have any money, he
was looked upon as a financier of the highest order. Which is saying a
great deal in these unfeeling days of pounds and shillings.
Of course Mrs. Odell-Carney was dressed as all rangy, long-limbed
Englishwomen are prone to dress,--after a model peculiarly not her own.
She looked ridiculously ungraceful alongside the smart, chic American
women, and yet not one of them but would have given her boots to be able
to array herself as one of these. There was no denying the fact that
Mrs. Odell-Carney was a "regular tip-topper," as Mr. Rodney was only too
eager to say. She had the air of a born leader; that is to say, she
could be gracious when occasion demanded, without being patronising.
In due course of time the Medcrofts and Miss Fowler were presented to
the distinguished couple. This function was necessarily delayed until
Odell-Carney had time to go into the details of a particularly annoying
episode of the afternoon. He was telling the story to his friend Rodney,
and of course everything was at a standstill until he got through.
It seems that Mr. Odell-Carney felt the need of a nap at three o'clock.
He gave strict injunctions that there was to be no noise in the halls
while he slept, and then went into his room and stretched out. Anyone
who has stopped at the Hotel Four Seasons will have no difficulty in
recalling the electric hall-bells which serve to attract the
chambermaids to given spots. If one needs the chambermaid, he presses
the button in his room and a little bell in the hall tinkles furiously
until she responds and shuts it off. In that way one is sure that she
has heard and is coming, a most admirable bit of German ingenuity. If
she happens to be taking her lunch at the time, the bell goes on ringing
until she returns; it is a faithful bell. Coming back to Odell-Carney:
the maid on his floor was making up a room in close proximity when a
most annoying thing happened to her. A porter who had reason to dislike
her came along and turned her key from the outside, locking her in the
room. She couldn't get out, and she had been warned against making a
sound that might disturb the English guest. With rare intelligence, she
did not scream or make an outcry, but wisely proceeded to press the
button for a chambermaid. Then she evidently sat down to wait. To make
the story short, she rang her own call-bell for two hours, no other maid
condescending to notice the call, which speaks volumes for the almost
martial system of the hotel. The bell was opposite the narrator's door.
Is it, therefore, surprising that he required a great deal of time to
tell all that he felt? It was not so much of what he did that he spoke
at such great length, but of what he felt.
"'Pon me soul," he exploded in the end, twisting his mustache with
nervous energy, "it was the demdest nap I ever had. I didn't close my
eyes, c'nfend me if I did."
While Odell-Carney was studiously adjusting his eyeglass for a final
glare at an unoffending 'bus boy who almost dropped his tray of plates
in consequence, Mr. Rodney fussily intervened and introduced the
Medcrofts. Mrs. Odell-Carney was delightfully gracious; she was sure
that no nicer party could have been "got together." Her husband may have
been excessively slow in most things, but he was quick to recognise and
appreciate feminine beauty of face and figure. He unbent at once in the
presence of the unmistakably handsome Fowler sisters; his expressive
"chawmed" was in direct contrast to his ordinary manner of acknowledging
an introduction.
"Mr. Medcroft is the famous architect, you know," explained the anxious
Mrs. Rodney.
"Oh, yes, I know," drawled Mr. Odell-Carney. "You American architects
are doing great things, 'pon my soul," he added luminously. Brock stuck
his eyeglass in tighter and hemmed with raucous precision. Mrs. Medcroft
stiffened perceptibly.
"Oh, but he's Mr. Roxbury Medcroft, the great English architect," cried
Mrs. Rodney, in some little confusion. Odell-Carney suddenly remembered.
He glared hard at Brock; the Rodneys saw signs of disaster.
"Oh, by Jove, are _you_ the fellow who put those new windows in the
Chaucer Memorial Hall? 'Pon me soul! Are you the man who did that?"
There was no mistaking his manner; he was distinctly annoyed.
Brock faced the storm coolly, for his friend Medcroft's sake. "I am
Roxbury Medcroft, if that's what you mean, Mr. Odell-Carney."
"I know you're Medcroft, but, hang it all, wot I asked was, did you
design those windows? 'Gad, sir, they're the laughing sensation of the
age. Where the devil did you get such ideas--eh, wot?" His wife had
calmly, diplomatically intervened.
"I hate that man," said Mrs. Medcroft to her supposed husband a few
minutes later. There was a dangerous red in her cheeks, and she was
breathing quickly. Brock gave an embarrassed laugh and mentioned
something audibly about a "stupid ass."
The entire party left on the following day for Innsbruck, where Mr.
Rodney already had reserved the better part of a whole floor for himself
and guests. Mr. Odell-Carney, before they left Munich, brought himself
to the point of apologising to Brock for his peppery remarks. He was
sorry and all that, and he hoped they'd be friends; but the windows were
atrocious, there was no getting around that. His wife smoothed it over
with Edith by confiding to her the lamentable truth that poor
Odell-Carney hadn't the remotest idea what he was talking about half of
the time. After carefully looking Edith over and finding her valuably
bright and attractive, she cordially expressed the hope that she would
come to see her in London.
"We must know each other better, my dear Mrs. Medcroft," she had said
amiably. Edith thought of the famous drawing-rooms in Mayfair and
exulted vastly. "And Mr. Medcroft, too. I am so interested in men who
have a craft. They always are worth while, really, don't you know. How
like an American Mr. Medcroft is. I daresay he gets that from having
lived so long with an American wife. And what a darling baby! She's
wonderfully like Mr. Medcroft, don't you think? No one could mistake
that child's father--never! And, my dear," leaning close with a
whimsical air of confidence, "that's more than can be said of certain
children I know of in very good families."
Edith may have gasped and looked wildly about in quest of help, but her
agitation went unnoticed by the new friend. From that momentous hour
Mrs. Medcroft encouraged an inordinate regard for the circumspect. She
decided that it was best never to be alone with her husband; the future
was now too precious to go unguarded for a single moment that might be
unexplainable when the triumphal hour of revelation came to hand. She
impressed this fact upon her sister, with the result that while Brock
was never alone with his prudent wife, he was seldom far from the side
of the adorable lieutenant. As if precociously providing for an ultimate
alibi, the fickle Tootles began to show unmistakable signs of aversion
for her temporary parent. Mrs. Rodney, being an old-fashioned mother,
could not reconcile herself to this unfilial attitude, and gravely
confided to her husband that she feared Medcroft was mistreating his
child behind their backs.
"Well, the poodle likes him, anyway," protested Mr. Rodney, who liked
Brock; "and if a dog likes a man he's not altogether a bad lot. If I
were you, I wouldn't spread the report."
"Spread it!" she sniffed indignantly. "Are they not my own cousins?
Twice removed," she concluded as an after-thought. "Do you imagine that
_I_ would spread it? He may be an unnatural father, but I shall not be
the one to say so. Please bear that in mind, Alfred."
"Well, let's not argue about it," said Mr. Rodney, departing before she
could disobey the injunction.
Of course, there was no little confusion at the Hotel Tyrol when it came
to establishing the Medcrofts. For a while it looked as though Brock
would have to share a room with Tootles, relegating Burton to an alcove
and a couch; but Constance, in a strictly family conclave, was seized by
an inspiration which saved the day--or the night, more properly
speaking.
"I have it, Roxbury," she cried, her eyes dancing. "You can sleep on the
balcony. A great many invalids do, you know."
"But, good heaven, I'm not an invalid," he remonstrated feebly.
"Of course, you're not, but can't you _say_ you are? It's quite simple.
You sleep in the open air because it does your lungs so much good. Oh, I
know! It isn't necessary to expand your chest like that. They're
perfectly sound, I daresay. I should think you'd rather enjoy the fresh
air. Besides, there isn't a room to be had in the hotel."
"But suppose it should rain!" he protested, knowing full well he was
doomed.
"You poor boy, haven't you an umbrella?" she cried with such a perfectly
entrancing laugh that he would have slept out in a hailstorm to provide
recompense. And so it was settled that he was to sleep in the small
balcony just off the baby's luxurious room, the hotel people agreeing to
place a cot there at night in order to oblige the unfortunate guest with
the affected lung.
"You are so dear and so agreeable, Roxbury," purred Mrs. Medcroft, very
much relieved. "If ever I hear of a girl looking for a nice husband,
I'll recommend you."
"It's all very nice," said he with a wry grin, "but I'm hanged if I
ought to be expected to remember all of my accomplishments." They were
sitting in her room, attended by the faithful duenna, Constance.
"First, the eyeglass; then the English language, with which I find I'm
most unfamiliar; then a deafness in one of my ears--I can't remember
which until it's too late; and now I'm to be a tubercular. You've no
idea how hard it is for me to speak English against Odell-Carney. I'm an
out-and-out amateur beside him. And it's horribly annoying to have
Ulstervelt shouting in my ear loud enough for everybody in the
dining-room to hear. It's rich, I tell you, and if I didn't love you so
devotedly, Edith, I'd be on my way at this very instant. There! I feel
better. 'On my way' is the first American line I've had in the farce
since we left Stuttgart. By the way, Edith, I'm afraid I'll have to
punch Odell-Carney's confounded head before long. He's getting to be so
friendly to me as Roxbury Medcroft that I can't endure him as Brock."
"I--I don't understand," murmured Edith plaintively. Constance looked up
with a new interest in her ever sprightly face.
"Well, you see, he's working so hard to square himself with Medcroft for
the break he made about the windows, that he's taking his spite out on
all American architects. Confound him, he persists in saying I'm all
right, but God deliver him from those demmed rotters, the American
builders. He says he wouldn't let one of us build a hencoop for him,
much less a dog kennel. Oh, I say, Connie, don't laugh! How would you
like it if--" But both of them were laughing at him so merrily that he
joined them at once. Burton and O'Brien, who had come in, were smiling
discreetly.
"Come, Roxbury, what do you say to a good long walk?" cried Constance.
"I must talk to you seriously about a great many things, beginning with
egotism." He set forth with alacrity, rejoicing in spite of his
limitations.
Upon their return from the delightful stroll along the mountain side,
she went at once to her room to dress for dinner. Brock, more deeply in
love than ever before, lighted a cigar and seated himself in the
gallery, dubiously retrospective in his meditations. He was sorely
disturbed by her almost constant allusion to Freddie Ulstervelt and his
"amazingly attractive ways." Was it possible that she could be really in
love with that insignificant little whipper-snapper? He seemed to be
propounding this doleful question to the lofty, sphinx-like
Waldraster-Spitze, looming dark in the path of the south.
"Hello!" exclaimed a voice close to his ear,--the fresh, confident voice
that he knew so well. "I've been looking for you everywhere." Freddie
drew up a chair and sat down at his "good side." The young man appeared
to have something weighty on his mind. Brock shifted uneasily. "I want
to put it up to you, Mr. Medcroft, as man to man. You are Connie's
brother-in-law and you ought to be able to set me straight."
"Ah, I see," said Brock vaguely.
"You do?" queried the other, surprise and doubt in his face.
"No, I should say I don't, don't you see," substituted Brock.
"I was wondering how you _could_ have seen. It's a matter I haven't
discussed with anyone. I've come to have a liking for you, Roxbury.
You're my sort; you have a sort of New York feeling about you. I'm sure
you're enough of a sport to give me unprejudiced advice. Hands across
the sea, see? Well, to get right down to the point, old man,--you'll
pardon my plain speech,--I think Constance ought to marry an American."
Brock sat up very straight. "I think that's--that's a matter for Miss
Fowler to determine," he said coldly.
"You don't quite get my meaning," persisted Freddie, crossing his legs
comfortably. "I was trying to make it easy for myself."
"You mean, you think she ought to marry you?"
"That's it, precisely. How clever you are."
"But you are said to be engaged to Miss Rodney," ventured Brock, feeling
his way.
"That's just the point, Mr. Medcroft. We're not really engaged--but
almost. As a matter of fact, we've got to the point where it's really up
to me to speak to her father about it, don't you know. Luckily, I
haven't."
"Luckily?"
"Yes. That would have committed me, don't you see. I've been tentatively
engaged more than a dozen times, but never quite up to the girl's
father. Now, I don't mind telling you that I've changed my mind about
Katherine. She's a jolly good sort, but she's not just _my_ sort. I
thought she was, but--well, you know how it is yourself. The heart's a
damned queer organ. Mine has gone back to Constance in the last two
days. You are her brother-in-law, and you're a good fellow, through and
through. I want your help. I've got money to burn, and the family's got
position in the States. I can take care of her as she should be taken
care of. No little old six-room flat for her. But, of course, you
understand, I can't quite carry the thing through with Katherine still
feeling herself attached, as it were. The thing to decide is this: how
best can I let Katherine down easily and take on Connie without putting
myself in a rather hazardous position? I'm a gentleman, you see, and I
can't do anything downright rotten. It wouldn't do. I'm sure, in her
heart, Connie cares for me. I could make her understand me better if I
had half the chance. But a fellow can't get near her nowadays. Don't you
think you are carrying the family link too far? Now, what I want to ask
of you, as a friend, is this: will you put in a good word for me every
chance you get? I'll square myself with Katherine all right. Of course,
you'll understand, I don't want to actually break with Katherine until
I'm reasonably sure of Constance. I'm a guest of the Rodney family, you
see. It would be downright indecent of me. No, sir! I'm not that sort. I
shouldn't think of ending it all with Katherine so long as we are both
guests of her father. I'd wait until the end of next week."
Brock had listened in utter amazement to the opening portion of this
ingenuous proposal. As the flexile youth progressed, amazement gave
place to indignation and then to disgust. Brock's brow grew dark; the
impulse to pull his countryman's nose was hard to overcome. Never in all
his life had he listened to such a frankly cold-blooded argument as that
put forth by the insufferable Knicker-bocker. In the end the big New
Yorker saw only the laughable side of the little New Yorker's plight.
After all, he was a harmless egoist, from whom no girl could expect much
in the way of recompense. It mattered little who the girl of the moment
might be, she could not hope to or even seek to hold his perambulatory
affections. "He's a single example of a great New York class," reflected
Brock. "The futile, priggish rich! There are thousands like him in my
dear New York--conscienceless, invertebrate, sybaritic sons of
idleness, college-bred and under-bred little beasts who can buy and then
cast off at their pleasure. They have no means of knowing how to fall in
love with a good girl. They have not been trained to it. It is not for
their scrambled intellects to discriminate between the chorus-girl brand
of attack and the subtle wooing of a gentlewoman. They can't
analyse--they can't feel! And this insipid, egotistical little bounder
is actually sitting there and asking me to help him with the girl I
love! Good Lord, what next?" He surveyed the eager Ulstervelt in the
most irritating manner, finally laughing outright in his face. The very
thought of him as Connie's accepted lover! She, the adorable, the
splendid, the unapproachable! It was excruciatingly funny!
"Oh, I say, old man," cried Freddie, when the disconcerting laugh came,
"don't laugh! It's no damned joke."
"'Pon my soul, Ulstervelt," apologised Brock, with a magnanimous smile,
"I haven't said it was a joke. You--"
"Then, what are you laughing at? Something you heard yesterday?" with
fine scorn. Brock stared hard at the flushed, boyish face of the other;
it was weak and yet as hard as brass, hard with the overbearing
confidence of the spoiled child of wealth.
"See here, Ulstervelt," he said with sudden coldness, "you're asking my
help. That's no way to get it."
"I beg pardon! I don't mean to be rude," apologised Freddie. "But, I
say, old man, I'll make it worth your while. My father's got stacks of
coin, and he's a power in New York. Odell-Carney's right. American
architects can't design good hencoops. What we want in New York is a
rattling good, up-to-date Englishman or two to show 'em a few things.
They're a lot of muckers over there, take it from me. By Jove, Roxbury,
you don't know how I'd appreciate your friendship in this matter. It
will simplify things immensely. You'll speak a good word for me when the
time comes, now, won't you?"
"You want me to do you a good turn," said Brock slowly. He found himself
grinning with a malicious joy. "All right, I'll see to it that Miss
Rodney doesn't marry you, my boy. I'll attend to her."
"Just a minute," interrupted Freddie quickly. "Don't be too hasty about
that. I want to be sure of Constance first."
"I see. I was just about to add that I'll give Constance a strong hint
that one of the most gallant young sparks in New York is likely to
propose to her before the end of the week. That will--"
"Heavens!" exclaimed Freddie, in disgust. "You needn't do that. I've
already proposed to her five or six times."
"And she--she is undecided?" cried Brock, his eyes darkening.
"No, hang it all, she's _not_ undecided. She's said _no_ every time.
That's why I'm up a tree, so to speak."
"Oh?" was all that Brock said. Of course she couldn't love a creature of
Freddie's stamp! He gloated!
"'Gad, you're a lucky dog, Roxbury," went on Freddie enviously. "Money
isn't everything. You're married to one of the prettiest and most
fascinating women in the world. She's a wonder. You can't blame me for
wanting your wife as a sister-in-law. Now, can you? And that kid! You
lucky dog!"