Now a digression here on the attitude of worldly mothers to their
daughters might be of interest, but would not further this story. Let
it suffice, in the chronicle of the shameless behaviour of young Lord
Paramour, to say that Mrs. Lyon-West was a mother after the Roman model,
and exacted from her offspring no less than abject obedience in all
matters which might obtain to her welfare; in which she was helped by
the fact that her beautiful daughter, in the days following the Albert
Hall Ball, showed a pleasing inclination for the company of the witty
and elegant Lord Paramour. Whereupon Mrs. Lyon-West asked him down to
the Lyon-West place for the week-end.
The omission of Mr. Lyon-West from this story may seem marked; and if we
are going down there with Lord Paramour politeness demands a glance at
him. Meet Mr. Lyon-West. He is a little gentleman with an amiable eye
and a hard and soft tennis court on his head. He does not matter very
much.
Among the other guests at the house-party, as they revealed themselves
after dinner on Saturday night, were Lord Pro and Lady Con--who, as of
course you know, is a Beaver in her own right. That amiable baronet, Sir
Courtenay Langouste, sat in a secluded corner reading the 68th edition
of _If Winter Comes_, while his lady near by cut the pages of the 69th
edition. Major General Sir Auction Bridges was with Mr. Soda, hotly
contesting Mr. Soda’s theory that hiccups was an infectious disease and
could be prevented by inoculation. Lady Savoury, our first female M.P.
and a great Improver, went about from group to group, indignantly
remarking that it served Oscar Wilde right if only for saying that work
is the curse of our drinking classes. Mrs. Custard, on the other hand,
retired early, complaining that she was very short of long gloves.
During a break in the conversation, which was witty and sustained, Lord
Paramour was understood to say that he would not be going to divine
service the next day; and his hostess was obliging enough to say that,
in that case, she too would not go to the morning service, but would
walk Lord Paramour round the grounds; which would, she said, repay an
early morning visit. Miss Lyon-West was understood to say that she came
to the country for rest.
As, next morning, the countryside sweetly echoed with the songs of birds
and church-bells, Lord Paramour and his hostess stepped out of the house
upon the velvet sward. The broad sweep of park and woodland lay before
them, soft and mellow in the haze of the morning sun, and Lord Paramour
suggested a brisk walk, but Mrs. Lyon-West begged to be excused, saying
she was enamoured of her rose garden; in which direction, skirting the
spacious house, they leisurely betook themselves, talking of this and
that in an elegant way.
“Penelope--” said Mrs. Lyon-West, for such was her daughter’s
name--“Penelope loves gardens. Especially rose gardens.”
“Indeed,” said Lord. Paramour. “Well, there’s nothing like a rose
garden.”
“_How_ I agree with you!” said Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. “Penelope,
however, carries it almost to an infatuation.”
“’Pon my word!” said Lord Paramour.
“Yes, Lord Paramour. During the rose season, for instance, she _insists_
on occupying a suite on the ground floor, from which she can at any
moment step out and bathe herself in the beauty of the flowers....”
“You turn a phrase very prettily, madam.”
“Oh, _thank_ you, Lord Paramour,” breathed Mrs. Lyon-West. “But, as you
will understand, her occupying a bedroom and a bathroom just _there_
makes things just a leetle awkward. For she _insists_ on having her
blinds drawn open, that she may enjoy the roses over her toilet, and so
_of course_ the gardeners cannot enter the rose garden during the
morning, as it distracts them from their work.”
“Lazy dogs!” cried Lord Paramour.
“Ah, here it is!” cried his hostess as, rounding an angle of the house,
they came upon the rose garden. “It is supposed to be the best rose
garden in the country.”
“Enchanting,” said Lord Paramour. “Enchanting, considering the gardeners
do no work in it in the mornings.”
“Oh, there’s Niblick, the agent!” cried Mrs. Lyon-West. “I _must_ speak
to him for a moment. Do excuse me a moment, Lord Paramour. I will be
back in _one_ moment.”
Lord Paramour, of course, excused her; and very pleasantly whiled away
twenty minutes with a cigarette in the rose garden. He paced about....
He saw the roses.... He saw a rose in particular, a white one....