"But Mr. Blumenfeld will think it so odd," said Bobbie.
"Well, tell him I'm eccentric. Tell him I have these moods, which come
upon me suddenly, when I can't stand the sight of people. Tell him what
you like."
"He'll be offended."
"Not half so offended as if I socked his son on the upper maxillary
bone."
"I really think it would be the best plan, miss."
"Oh, all right," said Bobbie. "Push off, then. But I wanted you to be
here to listen to this play and laugh in the proper places."
"I don't suppose there are any proper places," I said.
And with these words I reached the hall in two bounds, grabbed a hat,
and made for the street. A cab was just pulling up at the door, and
inside it were old Blumenfeld and his foul son. With a slight sinking
of the old heart, I saw that the kid had recognized me.
"Hullo!" he said.
"Hullo!" I said.
"Where are you off to?" asked the kid.
"Ha, ha!" I replied, and legged it for the great open spaces.
I lunched at the Drones', doing myself fairly well and lingering pretty
considerably over the coffee and cigarettes. At four o'clock I thought
it would be safe to think of getting back; but, not wishing to take any
chances, I went to the phone and rang up the flat.
"All clear, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're sure Blumenfeld, Junior, is nowhere about?"
"No, sir."
"He's not hiding around in any nook or cranny, what?"
"No, sir."
"How did everything go off, Jeeves?" I asked then.
"Quite satisfactorily, I fancy, sir."
"Was I missed?"
"I think Mr. Blumenfeld and young Master Blumenfeld were somewhat
surprised at your absence, sir. Apparently they encountered you as you
were leaving."
"They did. An awkward moment, Jeeves. The kid appeared to desire speech
with me, but I laughed hollowly and passed on. Did they comment on this
at all?"
"Yes, sir. Indeed, young Master Blumenfeld was somewhat outspoken."
"What did he say?"
"I cannot recall his exact words, sir, but he drew a comparison between
your mentality and that of a cuckoo."
"A cuckoo, eh?"
"Yes, sir. To the bird's advantage."
"He did, did he? Now you see how right I was to come away. Just one
crack like that out of him face to face and I should infallibly have
done his upper maxillary a bit of no good. It was wise of you to
suggest that I should lunch out."
"Thank you, sir."
"Well, the coast being clear, I shall now return."
"Before you start, sir, perhaps you would ring Miss Wickham up. She
instructed me to desire you to do so."
"You mean she asked you to ask me to?"
"Precisely, sir."
"Right ho. And the number?"
"Sloane 8090. I fancy it is the residence of Miss Wickham's aunt in
Eaton Square."
I got the number. And presently young Bobbie's voice came floating over
the wire. From the timbre I gathered that she was extremely bucked.
"Hullo? Is that you, Bertie?"
"In person. What's the news?"
"Wonderful! Everything went off splendidly. The luncheon was just
right. The child stuffed himself to the eyebrows and got more and more
amiable, till by the time he had had his third go of ice cream he was
ready to say that any play--even one of Mother's--was the goods. I
fired it at him before he could come out from under the influence, and
he sat there absorbing it in a sort of gorged way, and at the end old
Blumenfeld said, 'Well, Sonny, how about it?' and the child gave a sort
of faint smile, as if he was thinking about roly-poly pudding, and
said, 'O. K., Pop,' and that's all there was to it.
"Old Blumenfeld has taken him off to the movies, and I'm to look in at
the Savoy at five-thirty to sign the contract. I've just been talking
to Mother on the phone, and she's quite consumedly braced."
"Terrific!"
"I knew you'd be pleased. Oh, Bertie, there's just one other thing.
You remember saying to me once that there was nothing in the world you
wouldn't do for me?"
I paused a trifle warily. It is true that I had expressed myself in
some such terms as she had indicated, but that was before the affair of
Tuppy and the hot-water bottle, and in the calmer frame of mind induced
by that episode I wasn't feeling quite so spacious.
You know how it is. Love's flame flickers and dies. Reason returns
to her throne, and you aren't quite so ready to hop about and jump
through hoops as in the first pristine glow of the divine passion.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Well, it's nothing I actually want you to do. It's something I've done
that I hope you won't be sticky about. Just before I began reading the
play that dog of yours, the Aberdeen terrier, came into the room. The
child Blumenfeld was very much taken with it and said he wished he had
a dog like that. So naturally I had to say, 'Oh, I'll give you this
one.'"