The elder Paliser, seated in the hall of his town house, held a cup. In
the chair, a doge had throned. On the bottom of the cup was an N topped
by a crown. The cup contained hot milk.
Returning, a little before, from a drive, he had been helped up the
steps, into the hall, into the chair. He had not wished to be helped
farther. In the hall, the milk had been brought. As he sipped it, he
looked placid, dignified, evil. He looked very much like a wicked old
doge.
"When I don't move, it is remarkable how well I feel."
His son, to whom he spoke, sat in a sedan-chair which, delicately
enamelled without, was as delicately upholstered within. Through the
window of the chair, only the young man's face showed. If you had not
known better you might have mistaken it for the face of a lady of an
earlier, a politer, though not of a bloodier age. But you would have
known better. The hair, powdered white, was absent; so too were the
patches; so also was the rouge.
Behind the doge's chair a servant stood. Adjacently was a malachite
bench. Beyond was a malachite stairway. The elder Paliser, finishing
with the milk, extended the cup. The servant took it and turned.
Recesses, back of the stairway, engulfed him.
Monty Paliser straightened. The movement disclosed his collar, the white
of his tie.
It was the evening of the fourth day since the wedding. He had motored
in to dine at the Austens'. Cassy had seen him go and had seen too
uninterrupted hours in the music-room. The prospect was consoling.
But, pending the dinner and with an ample quarter of an hour to the
good, he had looked in on his father whom he had found in the hall.
Nothing filial had motived this looking-in. On the surface, it was a
visit of circumstance such as one gentleman may pay to another. But,
beneath the surface, was an object which, when the servant and the cup
had gone, he approached.
"I hope Benny has not been in your way."
"Not in the least. I told him to go back to you."
"Is he still here?"
"I haven't an idea."
"You might send him to Newport."
"You want to be rid of him, eh?"
"The Place does not need three gardeners."
The old man, who seemed to be feeling about for something, scowled.
"What it does not need is the atmosphere that you are giving it. You may
go to the devil your own way. I sha'n't stop you. But it puts a bad
taste in my mouth to have you turn it into a road-house. Damn it, sir,
you were born there."
Through the window of the sedan-chair, the young man was watching. He
saw it coming and masked himself.
"How funny of Benny to give you such an idea."
Then, straight at him, went the bomb.
"It was not a gift. What I got, I extracted. Why don't you marry? Eh?
Why don't you? In order that you might, I made over to you a thing or
two. I wish to God, I hadn't. But perhaps you are satisfied. If you are,
well and good. As it is, unless you marry, I'll leave the property to
Sally's brat and have him change his name. By Gad, sir, if I don't have
some assurance from you and have it now, I'll send for Jeroloman. I will
make a new will and I'll make it to-night. If you came here to dine, you
can stop on and listen to it."
The bomb was full of fumes. In the still air they floated. But in
throwing it, the old man's scowl had deepened. It had become a grimace
that creased every wrinkle into prominence. His hand had gone to his
chest. Gasping, he held it there. Then presently it fell. His features
relaxed and dryly, in an even tone, he resumed: "It is remarkable how
well I feel, if I don't talk. Any excitement suffocates me."
In the trench, that the sedan-chair had become, Monty Paliser tightened
the mask. "There is no need for any excitement. I will marry. You have
my word."
On the great blasoned throne, the old man shifted. The easy victory
mollified him. "Ah! You dine here?"
"Thank you, no. I am dining at the Austens'."
"Where?" the elder Paliser asked. He had heard but he wanted it
repeated. It seemed vaguely promising.
"At the Austens'. You may remember that the pearl of the household was
engaged. It's off."