They were three-quarters of the way through and were rapidly approaching the town, when quite suddenly Isabel, who up till then had apparently been taking little notice of where they were going, broke off abruptly in the middle of what she was saying.
"Why!" she stammered; "isn't—isn't this Richmond Park?"
Tony looked at her in mild surprise. "Yes," he said. "I came round this way for the sake of the run." He paused. "What's the matter?" he added, for all the colour and animation had died out of her face.
"I—I'd rather not go through Richmond," she faltered, "if—if it's all the same to you."
Tony slackened down the pace to a mere crawl. "Why of course," he said. "We will do exactly what you like. I didn't know——"
The sentence was never finished. With a sudden little gasp Isabel shrank back in the car, cowering against him almost as if she had been struck.
The cause of her alarm was not difficult to discover. A well-dressed elderly man who had been walking slowly towards them with his head down, had suddenly pulled up in the roadway and was staring at her in a sort of incredulous amazement. Although Tony had only seen him once before, he recognized him immediately. It was the agitated gentleman who had been talking to Da Freitas in the hall of the Club on the previous morning.
For perhaps a second he remained planted in the road apparently paralysed with amazement: then with a sudden hoarse exclamation of "Isabella!" he took a swift stride towards the car.
Isabel clutched Tony by the arm.
"Go on," she whispered faintly.
"Stop, sir!" bellowed the stranger, and with surprising agility for one of his age and dignified appearance, he hopped upon the step and caught hold of the door.
Tony didn't wait for any further instructions. Freeing his arm quietly from Isabel he leaned across the car, and with a sudden swift thrust in the chest sent the intruder sprawling in the roadway.
At the same moment he jammed on the accelerator, and the well-trained Hispano leaped forward like a greyhound from its leash.
A morbid regard for the exact speed limit was never one of Tony's failings, and he covered the short distance that separated them from the end of the park in what was probably a record time for that respectable stretch of fairway.
He slackened down a little on reaching the gates, but as luck would have it there was no one about to obstruct his progress, and in a graceful curve he swept out on to the main road.
Then with a laugh he turned to Isabel.
"I love going about with you, Isabel," he said. "One never knows what's going to happen next."
She made no answer, but rising slightly in her seat cast a quick, frightened glance over her shoulder as if to see whether they were being followed.
"It's quite all right," went on Tony comfortingly. "I don't know who your friend is, but we shan't be seeing him again to-day."
"That," said Isabel faintly—"that was my uncle."
"Really!" said Tony. "He seems very impulsive."
He paused for a moment while the Hispano neatly negotiated a rather dazzled-looking cluster of pedestrians, and then turning again to his companion he added consolingly: "Don't let it worry you, Isabel. Lots of charming people have eccentric uncles."
She made a little protesting gesture with her hands. "Oh, no, no," she said almost piteously, "I can't go on like this. I must tell you the whole truth. I ought to have done so right at the beginning."
"Just as you like," replied Tony, "but hadn't we better wait till we have had some food. It's so much easier to tell the truth after a good meal."
She nodded rather forlornly, and without wasting any further discussion on the matter, Tony turned away to the right and headed off in the direction of Cookham. He continued to talk away to Isabel in his easy, unruffled fashion exactly as if nothing unusual had occurred, and by the end of the first mile or so she had pulled herself together sufficiently to answer him back with quite a passable imitation of her former good spirits. All the same it was easy to see that underneath this apparent cheerfulness she was in almost as nervous a state as when he had first met her in Long Acre.
They reached Cookham, and slowing down as the car entered its pleasant, straggling main street, Tony turned into the courtyard of the Dragon. A large, sombre-looking dog attached to a chain greeted his appearance with vociferous approval; a welcome which, in spirit at all events, was handsomely seconded by the smiling proprietress, who a moment later made her appearance through the side door. Tony was distinctly popular at riverside hotels.
"How do you do, Miss Brown?" he said.
"Very well, thank you, Sir Antony," she replied. "And you, sir? Lie down."
The latter observation was addressed to the dog.
"I am suffering from hunger," observed Tony. "Do you think you can make any nice suggestion about lunch?"
The landlady paused reflectively.
"I can give you," she said, "some trout, a roast duckling, and marrow on toast."
Tony looked at her for a moment in speechless admiration. "My dear Miss Brown," he said, "that isn't a suggestion. That's an outburst of poetry." He turned to Isabel apologetically. "Roast duckling," he explained, "is one of the few things that make me really excited."
She laughed—a little gay, frank, natural laugh that Tony was delighted to hear. "I think all men are greedy," she said. "At least all the men I've ever known have been."
Tony nodded. "It's one of the original instincts of humanity," he observed thoughtfully. "We have to be greedy in self-defence. A man who isn't is bound to be beaten by a man who is. It's what Darwin calls the survival of the fattest." He turned back to the landlady who had been listening to him with a placid smile. "Send us a couple of cocktails into the dining-room, will you, Miss Brown," he said. "It would be wicked to rush at a lunch like that without any preparation."
All through the meal, which was served in a pleasant room looking out into a quaint old courtyard garden at the back, Tony kept the conversation in the same strain of impersonal philosophy. It was not until the marrow on toast had gone the way of all beautiful earthly things that he made any reference to Isabel's promised revelation.
"What do you say to having coffee outside?" he suggested. "There's a nice place where we can sit in the sun and you can tell me about your uncle. One should never discuss one's relations in a public dining-room."
Isabel contented herself with a nod, and after giving their instructions to the waiter, they strolled out through the open French window, and made their way to a rustic bench at the farther end of the garden.
It was a delightfully warm, peaceful spring day, and the perfume of the hyacinths and daffodils that were in full bloom almost overpowered the slight odour of petrol from the neighbouring garage.
"It's a curious coincidence," observed Tony, as the waiter retired after placing their coffee on a small table beside them, "but as a matter of fact I feel in exactly the right frame of mind for listening to the truth. I expect it's that bottle of burgundy we had."
He struck a match and held it out to Isabel, who, bending forward, lighted the cigarette which she had been twisting about between her fingers.
"It's—it's dreadfully difficult to tell things," she said, sitting up and looking at him rather helplessly. "I haven't the least notion how to begin."
"Of course it's difficult," said Tony. "Nothing requires so much practice as telling the truth. It's against every civilized impulse in human nature." He paused. "Suppose we try the catechism idea for a start. I ask you 'what is your name?' and you say 'Isabel Francis.'"
She shook her head. "But—but it isn't," she faltered. "It's—it's Isabella, and there are about eight other names after it."
Tony looked at her in surprise. "Why that's exactly the complaint I am suffering from. I thought it was peculiar to baronets and superfluous people of that sort."
"Well, the fact is," began Isabel; then she stopped. "Oh, I know it sounds too utterly silly," she went on with a sort of hurried desperation, "but you see the fact is I—I'm a queen."
She brought out the last three words as if she were confessing some peculiarly shameful family secret.
Tony slowly removed his cigarette from his lips.
"A what?" he inquired.
"Well, not exactly a queen," said Isabel, correcting herself hastily. "In a way I am, you know. I mean I ought to be. At least that's what they say." She broke off in a charming confusion that made her look prettier than ever.
Tony leaned back in the seat and contemplated her with deep enjoyment.
"You grow more perfect every minute, Cousin Isabel," he said. "Don't hurry yourself, but just tell me quite slowly and deliberately who you really are."
Isabel took a long breath. "My father was Don Francisco of Livadia, and some people say I ought to be the queen."
Tony was not easily surprised, but for once in his life he sat up as if he had been struck by an electric shock. Even his trusty powers of speech were temporarily numbed.
He had of course heard of Don Francisco—that persistent gentleman who for twenty years had indulged in spasmodic and ineffectual efforts to wrest the throne of Livadia from Pedro's father. But that Isabel should be his daughter, and what was more the apparently recognized heir to his royal claims, was one of those staggering surprises for which the English language contains no adequate comment.
For a moment he remained gazing at her in the blankest astonishment; then the full humour of the situation suddenly came home to him, and he broke into a long chuckle of delighted amusement.
Isabel watched him sympathetically out of her amber eyes.
"It's quite true," she said. "I know it sounds absurd, but it's quite true."
"I don't think it's the least absurd," said Tony, who had now completely recovered his normal composure. "I think it's the most beautifully reasonable thing that's ever happened. Of course you are a queen, or ought to be a queen. I felt that the moment I met you." He paused, and taking out his case lighted himself a fresh cigarette. "It was the Livadian part of the business that knocked me out so completely," he explained.
Isabel nodded her head. "I know," she said. "I heard you say that you knew Pedro and Da Freitas. That was one of the things that made me feel I ought to tell you."
"It only shows," remarked Tony with quiet satisfaction, "that the Early Christian Fathers were quite right. If one has faith and patience one generally gets what one wants sooner or later. All my life I have had a secret craving to be mixed up in some really high-class conspiracy; with kings and queens and bombs and wonderful mysterious people crawling about trying to assassinate each other. I was just beginning to be afraid that all that kind of thing was extinct." He drew in a long mouthful of smoke, and let it filter out luxuriously into the still, warm air. "How very fortunate I happened to be in Long Acre, wasn't it?"
"I am so glad you feel like that," said Isabel happily. "I was afraid you wouldn't want to help me any more when you knew all about it."
"But I don't know all about it yet," objected Tony. "Hadn't you better begin right at the beginning and tell me everything?"
For a moment Isabel hesitated.
"Well," she said slowly. "I suppose that what you would call the beginning—the real beginning—was a long time before I was born. You see my grandfather always had an idea that he ought to be king of Livadia, because he said there was something wrong about somebody's marriage or something back in sixteen hundred and fifty—at least I think that was the date."
"It was a very careless century," said Tony.
"He didn't bother much about it himself," went on Isabel, "because he hated Livadia and liked to live in Paris or London. Besides I think they made him an allowance to keep out of the country. Father was quite different. He always wanted to be a king, and directly my grandfather died, he started doing everything he could to get what he called 'his rights.'"
"I can never understand any intelligent man wanting to be a king," observed Tony thoughtfully. "One would have to associate entirely with successful people, and they are always so horribly busy and conceited."
"But father wasn't intelligent," explained Isabel, "not in the least little bit. He was just obstinate. He was quite certain he ought to be a king, and you know when you are quite certain about a thing yourself, however silly it is, there are always lots of others who will agree with you." She paused. "Besides," she went on, "after the old King died and Pedro's father came to the throne, things were quite different in Livadia. The taxes went on going up and up, and the country kept on getting poorer and poorer, until at last a certain number of people began to wonder whether it wouldn't be better to have a change. I don't think they thought much of father. I suppose they just felt he couldn't be worse anyhow."
"I like your historical sense, Isabel," observed Tony. "It's so free from prejudice."
Isabel accepted the compliment with perfect simplicity. "You see I knew father," she said frankly. "He would have made a very bad king; he was always getting intoxicated."
Tony nodded. "Nearly all exiled monarchs are addicted to drink. They find it necessary to keep up their enthusiasm."
"But it wasn't only a question of drinking in father's case," went on Isabel. "People wouldn't have minded that very much; you see they are so used to it in Livadia. It was the way he quarrelled with everyone afterwards that spoilt his chances. At one time he had almost as big a following as the King, but after a bit most of them gave him up as hopeless. Then someone started the idea of a Republic. It was quite a small party at first, but people drifted into it gradually from both sides until in the end it was the strongest of the three. Father wouldn't give up for a long time. He was a frightfully obstinate man, and I don't think he knew what it meant to be afraid. That was one of his best points. He kept on until nearly everyone who stuck to him had been killed, and then at last he got badly wounded himself, and only just managed to escape over the frontier."
"And what were you doing all this crowded time?" inquired Tony.
"I," said Isabel, "oh, I was living in Paris with my governess, Miss Watson."
"What—the missing lady of Long Acre?"
Isabel nodded. "She looked after me for fifteen years. You see, father had spent a good deal of time in London when he was young, and he always said that English women were the only ones you could trust because they were so cold. So when my mother died, he engaged Miss Watson and put me in her charge altogether."
"Judging by the results," observed Tony, "it seems to have been a happy choice."
"She's a dear," said Isabel with enthusiasm, "an absolute dear. I don't know what I should have been like without her, because father always insisted on his own people treating me as if I was a real princess, and we never saw any one else. If it hadn't been for her, I should probably have believed everything they told me." She paused for a moment as though reflecting on this narrow but fortunate escape, and then straightening herself in the seat, she added: "I was really quite happy until Uncle Philip sent her away."
"Is Uncle Philip our impetuous friend of Richmond Park?" inquired Tony.
"That's him," said Isabel, with a queenly disregard for grammar. "He is my mother's brother, and his real name is the Count de Sé. He came to live with us in Paris after father was wounded. He is a nasty, mean, hateful sort of man, but father liked him because he was the only person left who treated him like a king. Poor father was nearly always drunk in those days, and I don't think he really knew what he was doing. Uncle Philip used to talk to him and flatter him and all that sort of thing, and at last he got father to make a will appointing him as my guardian. The very first thing he did, as soon as father died, was to send away Miss Watson."
"I don't think I like Uncle Philip," said Tony. "I am glad I pushed him off the car."
"So am I," said Isabel with surprising viciousness. "I only hope he hurt himself. He did fall in the road, didn't he?" she added anxiously.
"I think so," said Tony. "It sounded like it anyway."
"I can't help feeling horrid about him," she went on. "It is all his fault that any of this has happened."
"I am glad to hear something in his favour," said Tony.
"Oh, I don't mean my being here and knowing you. I love that part of it. I mean Richmond and Pedro and Da Freitas, and—and—oh, all the hateful, ghastly time I have had the last month."
She broke off with a slight shiver, as though the very memory were physically unpleasant. Tony smoked his cigarette in sympathetic silence until she felt ready to continue.
"You see," she began, "after Miss Watson was sent away there was no one to help me at all. Uncle Philip wouldn't let me have any money, and the only person I could talk to was a horrible old Frenchwoman who spied on me all the time like a cat. I had a year of that, and then one day Uncle Philip told me that he had taken a house for us at Richmond in England, and that we were going over to live there at once. I didn't mind. Anything seemed better than Paris, and of course I had no idea what his real plans were."
There was a short pause.
"It didn't take me long to find out," she went on bitterly. "The day after we arrived, I was sitting in the drawing-room when who should come in but Uncle Philip and the Marquis da Freitas. You can imagine how astonished I was when Uncle introduced him. Of course I had always been brought up to look on him as the worst enemy we had. Well, he bowed and he smiled and he paid me a lot of compliments, and then he said that now Livadia was a republic it was only right that the two branches of the royal family should be friends. He kept on telling me how anxious King Pedro was to make my acquaintance, and at last it came out that he and the King were living in Richmond and that we were invited over to dinner the next night.
"Even then," she continued slowly, "I didn't guess what was behind it all. It was only when he was gone and I was alone with Uncle that I found out the truth."
She paused.
"Yes?" said Tony.
Isabel took another long breath.
"They had arranged for a marriage between me and Pedro, and it was to come off in a couple of months."
A low surprised whistle broke from Tony's lips.
"By Jove!" he said softly. "By Jove!"
For a moment he remained contemplating Isabel with a sort of grave enjoyment; then abandoning his cigarette he sat up straight in the seat.
"This," he observed, "is undoubtedly a case of predestination. It must have been arranged millions of years ago that I should be in Long Acre on that particular evening."
"Perhaps it was," said Isabel. "Anyway I shouldn't have married Pedro whatever happened. I made up my mind about that the first time I saw him."
"Did you tell him?" asked Tony.
"I told Uncle Philip as soon as we got home. Of course he was very angry, but I don't think he took me seriously. He just said it didn't make any difference—that whether I liked it or not I should have to be married, so I had better get used to the idea as quickly as possible."
Tony nodded his head thoughtfully.
"It all fits in perfectly except one thing," he said. "I can't quite see what your uncle and Da Freitas hope to get out of it. They must both have some notion at the back of their beautiful heads."
"That's what I don't understand," said Isabel in a puzzled voice. "Anyhow it's all their arrangement. Pedro doesn't want to marry me really—not a little bit. He is only doing it because Da Freitas tells him to." She hesitated. "If it hadn't been for that I couldn't have stood it as long as I did."
"How long was it?" asked Tony sympathetically.
"Just three weeks. The day after that first dinner Da Freitas came over again, and made a sort of formal proposal. I told him quite plainly I wouldn't, but it didn't make any difference. Uncle Philip declared that I was shy, and didn't know what I was talking about, and Da Freitas said in his horrid oily way that he was quite sure when I got to know Pedro better I would love him as much as he loved me. I saw it was no good saying anything else, so I just made up my mind I would run away."
Tony looked at her approvingly. "You are extraordinarily practical," he said, "for the daughter of an exiled monarch."
"There was nothing else to do," replied Isabel; "but it wasn't easy. You see I had no money and Uncle never let me go out alone. Wherever I went I always had Suzanne the old Frenchwoman with me. The only person I could think of who might be able to help me was Miss Watson. When she left she had given me her address in London, and I knew she would do anything she could because she hated Uncle Philip almost as much as I did. I wrote her a little note and carried it about with me in my dress for days, but I never got a chance to post it. Well, things went on like that till last Monday. I was feeling hateful, because Pedro had been to dinner the night before, and I think he'd had too much to drink. Anyhow he had wanted to kiss me afterwards, and there had been a frightful row, and everyone had been perfectly horrid to me. In the morning Uncle started again. He told me that he and the Marquis da Freitas had decided to put a stop to what he called my 'nonsense,' and that they were making arrangements for me and Pedro to be married immediately. I felt miserable, but I wasn't going to argue any more about it, so I just said nothing. He went over there about half-past six in the evening and I was left alone in the house with Suzanne. They wouldn't trust me to be by myself at all, except at night, when I was always locked in my bedroom."
She stopped to push back a rebellious copper-coloured curl which had temporarily escaped over her forehead.
"We were sitting in the drawing-room," she went on, "and Suzanne was knitting, and I was supposed to be reading a book. I wasn't really, because I was too miserable to think about anything. I was just sitting doing nothing when I happened to look up, and there I saw half-a-crown on the writing-desk opposite. I suppose it must have been Suzanne's. Well, I looked at it for a moment, and then all of a sudden I made up my mind. I got up out of the chair, and walked across the room as if I was going to get something fresh to read. As I passed the desk I picked up the half-crown. I had a horrible feeling in my back that Suzanne was watching me, but I didn't look round till I got to the book-case, and then I saw that she was still knitting away quite peacefully and happily. I didn't wait any longer. I just walked straight on to the door, and before she knew what was happening, I had slipped out on to the landing and locked her in."
"Splendid!" said Tony with enthusiasm. "I can almost hear her gnashing her teeth."
"She was rather angry," admitted Isabel, "but I didn't pay any attention to her. I knew that no one could hear, so I left her to shout and kick the door and ran straight up to my room. I was too excited to bother much about what I took with me. I just stuffed a few things in my bag, and then I crept downstairs again, and got out of the house as quick as ever I could."
"Did you feel afraid?" asked Tony.
"Not till I got to the station. Then I found I had ten minutes to wait for a train and that was awful. I kept on thinking Uncle Philip would turn up every moment. I stopped in the ladies' waiting-room as long as I could, and then I made a dash for the platform and jumped into the first carriage I came to. It was full of old women, and they all stared at me as if I was mad. I felt horribly red and uncomfortable, but I wasn't going to get out again, so I just squeezed into a seat and shut my eyes and let them stare."
"You mustn't blame them," said Tony. "It's the special privilege of cats to scrutinize Royalty."
"Oh, I didn't mind really. I am sort of accustomed to it. People used to stare at me in France when I went in a train. I expect it's my red hair." She paused. "All the same I was glad when we got to Waterloo. I was so excited I could hardly breathe till I was past the barrier, and then I nearly collapsed. I know now just how an animal feels when he gets out of a trap." She turned to Tony. "You don't think I'm an awful coward, do you?"
"I think you are as brave as a lion," said Tony.
"I didn't feel it then," she answered. "I was trembling all over and my heart was thumping like anything. I sat down on a seat for a minute, and then I thought I would go into the refreshment room and have a cup of tea. You see I had come away without any dinner."
"You poor dear!" said Tony feelingly. "Of course you had!"
"Well, I got up from the seat, and I was just looking round to see where the refreshment room was, when I suddenly caught sight of two men staring at me like anything."
"What—not our two comic opera pals?" exclaimed Tony.
Isabel nodded emphatically. "Yes," she said, "that's who it was. They were standing over by the bookstall talking together. They turned away directly I looked at them, but I knew perfectly well they were watching me. I had never seen either of them before and it made me feel horribly frightened again. I thought that perhaps Uncle had telephoned up to London, and that they were two policemen who had come to fetch me back."
"You can always tell an English policeman when he is in plain clothes," interrupted Tony. "He looks so fearfully ashamed of himself."
"I didn't know," said Isabel. "I was too upset to think much, and when they came after me into the refreshment room I could simply have screamed. I thought they were going to speak to me then, but they didn't. They just sat there while I had my tea, and then followed me out on to the platform. I asked a porter what was the best way to get to Long Acre, and he told me to take the tube to Leicester Square. I hoped and hoped I'd manage to lose them, but it was no good. They came along in the same carriage and got out at Leicester Square, too."
"I wish I'd been with you," said Tony regretfully. "I have never been traced or shadowed or anything like that. It must be a wonderful feeling."
"It was awful in the lift," said Isabel. "I hadn't the least notion which way to go when I got out, and I felt certain they would come up and speak to me. I was so desperate that just as the lift stopped I turned round to the lady who was standing next me and asked her if she could show me the way to Long Acre. You can imagine how pleased I was when she said she was going in that direction and I could walk along with her."
"I suppose they crept stealthily after you," said Tony. "People always do that in books when they are shadowing anybody."
"I suppose they did," said Isabel. "I was much too frightened to look round. I just walked along with the lady till we got to the door of the flats, and then I thanked her very much and ran upstairs as fast as I could. Miss Watson's number was right at the top of the building. There was no bell, so I hammered on the knocker, and then I stood there panting and trying to get my breath, and thinking every moment I should hear them coming up the stairs after me.
"Well, I stood there and stood there, and nothing happened, and then suddenly it came to me as if—oh, just as if somebody had dropped a lump of ice down inside my dress. Suppose Miss Watson had left! You see I had been so excited about getting away from Richmond I had never thought of that. For a second it made me feel quite ill; then I grabbed hold of the knocker, and I was just beginning to hammer again, when the door of the opposite flat opened and an old gentleman came out on to the landing. He was a fat, cross-looking old man, with spectacles and carpet slippers, and a newspaper in his hand. He said to me: 'It's no good making that horrible noise. Miss Watson has gone away for a month, and there's no one in the place.' Then he banged the door and went back into the flat."
"Dyspeptic old brute," observed Tony. "I hope you went on hammering."
"What was the good?" said Isabel with a little despairing gesture. "I knew he was speaking the truth because I had already made enough noise to wake up twenty people. Besides I seemed to have gone all sort of numbed and stupid. I had so counted on finding Miss Watson I had never even begun to think what would happen if she wasn't there."
"It must have been a shattering blow," said Tony. "I think I should have burst into tears."
"I couldn't cry; I was too dazed and miserable. I just leaned where I was against the wall and wondered what on earth I was to do next. The only thing I could think of was to go to a hotel. I had no money, except what was left out of the half-crown, but I had got my rings and I knew I could sell them the next day. It was the two men outside that I was so frightened of. I felt certain they were policemen, and that if I went anywhere they would be sure to follow me and then telegraph to Uncle Philip where I was.
"I don't know how long I stayed on the landing. It seemed an age, but I expect it was only about half an hour really. I thought that perhaps if I stopped there long enough they might get tired of waiting and go away.
"At last I began to feel so cold and hungry and tired I simply couldn't stand it any longer. I came downstairs again as far as the hall, and then I walked across to the door and looked out into the street. I couldn't see a sign of anybody waiting about, so I just sort of set my teeth and stepped out on to the pavement. I stood there for a second wondering which way to go, and then almost before I knew what was happening there I was with my back against the wall, and those two horrible men in front of me."
She paused with a little reminiscent gasp.
"And the rest of the acts of Isabel and all that she did," began Tony; then he broke off with a laugh. "What was it our squint-eyed friend was actually saying to you?" he asked.
"It wasn't so much what he said," answered Isabel; "it was what he said it in. He spoke to me in Livadian."
Tony nodded composedly. "I thought so," he observed.
"He said: 'Don't be frightened, Madam; we are your friends.' At least I think it was that. I was too upset to listen to him properly; and the next moment you came." She drew in a long breath. "Oh, I was pleased," she added simply.
"So was I," said Tony, "and so was Bugg. In fact I think we were all pleased except your friends." He paused. "Are you quite sure you hadn't seen either of them before?"
Isabel nodded. "Quite," she said. "I never forget faces; especially faces like that."
"Theyarethe sort that would linger in one's memory," said Tony. He got up from the seat and stood for a moment with his hands in his side-pockets looking thoughtfully down at Isabel.
"Now you know everything," she began hesitatingly. "Are you—are you still certain you wouldn't like me to go away?"
"Go away!" repeated Tony. "My incomparable cousin, what are you talking about?"
"But just think," she pleaded. "It may mean all sorts of trouble. I don't know who those two men are or what they want, but I've got a sort of horrible feeling they will find me out again somehow. And then there's my uncle and Da Freitas." She gave a little shiver. "Oh, you don't know Da Freitas as I do. There's nothing he will stop at to get me back—absolutely nothing."
Tony smiled happily. "I quite believe you," he said. "I should think he was a most unscrupulous brute. People with those smooth purry voices always are." Then with that sudden infectious laugh he took his hands from his pockets and held them out to Isabel, who after a momentary hesitation put out her own to meet them. "My dear Isabel," he said, almost seriously; "haven't you grasped the great fact that this is the most colossal jest ever arranged by Providence? I should see it through to the end if I had to get up to breakfast every day for the rest of my life." He paused with a twinkle in his eyes. "Unless, of course, you really want to be Queen of Livadia."
"Me!" exclaimed Isabel, with the same fine disregard for grammar. "Why, I never want to see the hateful place again. There's nothing I would love better than just to stay with you—I mean of course," she added hastily, "until Miss Watson comes back."
"Of course," said Tony.
Then suddenly releasing her hands, Isabel too got up from the seat.
"It's only that I don't want to be a trouble or—or an expense," she added a little confusedly.
"As far as the expense goes," said Tony, "the matter is already settled. I have consulted one of the most eminent pawnbrokers in London, and he tells me that your great-grandmother had a very pretty taste in jewellery. There will be no need to pawn the rings. He let me have seven thousand pounds on the brooch alone."
"Seven thousand pounds," echoed Isabel with a gasp. "Oh, but how lovely! I can live on that for ever." She hesitated for a moment. "They are part of the Royal collection you know. Pedro gave them to me when we were betrothed—at least I don't suppose he really meant me to keep them."
Tony laughed joyously. "What fun!" he exclaimed. "I should love to have seen Da Freitas' face when he heard you had taken them with you. Though as a matter of fact," he added, "we shall probably see it quite soon enough, unless Uncle Phil was too agitated to recognize me."
"Recognize you?" repeated Isabel, opening her eyes. "Why he has never seen you before this morning!"
"Yes, he has," said Tony. "I happened to be in the hall of the Club yesterday, when he came rushing in to tell Da Freitas that you had disappeared. At least I imagine that was what he came for. He could hardly have been so beautifully excited about anything else."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Isabel in dismay. "Then if he saw you in the car he will be able to find out who you are from Da Freitas."
Tony nodded. "One can't have all the trumps," he observed philosophically. "It would be an awfully dull game if one did."
There was a second's pause. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture Isabel clasped her hands together in front of her.
"I don't care," she remarked defiantly. "I'm not frightened of them. I don't believe I shall be frightened of anything—not with you to help me."
The mellow-toned grandfather clock in the corner chimed out the stroke of nine-thirty as Guy crossed the hall with a bundle of papers in his hand. He had reached the foot of the banisters and was preparing to ascend, when his progress was brought to a sudden standstill.
Coming down the broad oak staircase, with the inevitable cigarette between his lips, was the smiling and fully dressed figure of Sir Antony Conway.
Guy stared at him incredulously.
"Good gracious, Tony!" he observed. "Do you mean to say you have got up to breakfast two days running?"
"I have," said Tony with some dignity. "As the prospective member for Balham North, I feel it's my duty to be thoroughly English." He reached the bottom of the stairs and slipped his arm through his cousin's. "I have told Spalding that I will have porridge, eggs and bacon, marmalade, and a copy of theTimes," he added. "Come along into the study and help me to face them."
"Well, I am pretty busy this morning," said Guy, "but I would sacrifice a good deal for the sake of seeing you reading theTimesand eating a proper healthy breakfast."
"Oh, I don't suppose I shall go as far as that," said Tony. "I shall probably only look at them. There is no point in carrying things to extremes."
He pushed open the door of the study, where they discovered Spalding in the act of putting the finishing touches to a charmingly appointed breakfast table.
With a final glance of approval at his handiwork, that well-trained servitor stepped back and pulled out a chair for Tony.
"Is everything ready?" inquired the latter.
"Quite ready, Sir Antony," replied Spalding. "The copy of theTimesis beside your plate, sir. You will find the engineering supplement inside."
He brought up another chair for Guy, and then retiring to a small electric lift in the wall, produced the eggs and bacon and porridge which he placed on the sideboard upon a couple of carefully trimmed and already lighted spirit stoves.
"You needn't wait, Spalding," said Tony. "I like to help myself at breakfast; it's more in keeping with the best English traditions."
Spalding bowed, and crossing to the door closed it noiselessly behind him.
Tony began leisurely to pour himself out a cup of tea.
"I suppose you have had your breakfast, Guy?" he observed.
The latter nodded. "I have," he said, "but if you are going to keep up this excellent habit of early rising, I shall wait for you in future."
"Yes, do," said Tony. "Then we can read out the best bits in theTimesto each other. Henry and Laura do it every morning at breakfast." He took a sip out of the cup and lighted himself a fresh cigarette. "By the way," he added. "I am going to meet them at lunch to-day."
"Where?" inquired Guy.
"At Aunt Fanny's. She sent me a sort of S.O.S. call this morning saying that they were coming and imploring help. I can't leave her alone with them. She is getting too old for really hard work."
"I believe Aunt Fanny deliberately encourages you to laugh at them," said Guy severely.
"I don't want any encouragement," protested Tony, helping himself to a delicately browned piece of toast.
"If I didn't laugh at Laura I should weep."
"You would do much better if you listened a bit more to what they said. But of course it's no use offering you any advice."
"Oh, yes, it is," said Tony. "That's where you wrong me." He leaned back in his chair and looked mischievously across at his cousin. "I pay the most careful attention to everything you tell me, Guy. At the present moment I am seriously thinking of following some advice you gave me yesterday."
"What about?" asked Guy suspiciously.
Tony broke off a little piece of toast and crunched it thoughtfully between his teeth.
"About Cousin Isabel," he replied.
Something remarkably like a faint flush of colour mounted into Guy's face.
"Really!" he observed with an admirable indifference.
Tony nodded gently. "Certain things which have come to my knowledge since have made me feel that perhaps you were right in what you said. I doubt whether I should be justified in risking my political career for the sake of a passing whim. After all one has to think of the country."
Guy looked at him with mistrust. "You don't suppose I shall swallow that," he observed.
"It doesn't matter," said Tony sadly. "I am used to being misunderstood." He paused. "What did you think of Isabel?" he asked.
Guy was evidently prepared for the question. "I was pleasantly surprised with her," he admitted. "She seemed to me a very attractive girl, and I should think quite straightforward."
Again Tony nodded his head. "Yes," he said, "I think that's true. It makes me all the more sorry I can't go on helping her."
"Can't go on helping her!" repeated Guy. "What do you mean?"
"Well, she told me her history yesterday, and it's not at all the sort of thing a rising young politician ought to be mixed up with. She admitted as much herself. I am afraid the only thing to do is to get rid of her as quickly as we can."
Guy sat up indignantly. "I don't know what you are talking about," he said, "but I am quite sure you have misunderstood her in some way or other. Anyhow what you suggest is impossible. You can't pick up people and drop them again in this thoughtless and selfish fashion. What's the girl to do? You have chosen to make yourself responsible for her, and you must arrange to send her back to her people—or something."
"Unfortunately," said Tony, "there are difficulties in the way. Her father and mother are both dead, and her nearest relations are all out of work for the moment."
"Has she any profession?" asked Guy.
Tony nodded.
"Yes, she's a queen."
There was a short silence. "Awhat?" demanded Guy.
"A queen!" repeated Tony. "It's not a profession that I altogether approve of for women, but she had been brought up to it, and——"
Guy pushed back his chair. "Look here, Tony," he exclaimed, "what on earth are you talking about?"
Tony raised his eyebrows. "Isabel," he explained patiently. "Cousin Isabel. The nice little red-haired girl you were teaching gardening to yesterday. She is the only daughter of that late lamented inebriate—Don Francisco of Livadia."
With a startled ejaculation Guy suddenly sat up straight in his chair. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing intelligible seemed to suggest itself.
"Furthermore," pursued Tony tranquilly, "she is the affianced wife of our illustrious little pal King Pedro the Fifth. That of course explains why she has run away."
By a supreme effort Guy succeeded in regaining his lost powers of conversation. His face was a beautiful study in amazement, dismay, and incredulity.
"But—but—Good Heavens!" he gasped; "This can't be true! You must be joking!"
"Joking!" repeated Tony sternly. "Of course I'm not joking. No respectable Englishman ever jokes at breakfast."
Guy threw up his hands with a gesture that was almost tragic.
"Well, if it's true," he observed, "you have just about gone and done it this time with a vengeance." He got up from his seat, took a couple of agitated paces towards the window, and then came back to the table where the future member for Balham North was still placidly munching his toast. "Good Lord, Tony!" he exclaimed; "don't you understand what a serious matter this is?"
"Of course I do," said Tony. "You don't suppose I would talk about it at breakfast otherwise."
"It's more than serious," continued Guy in a strained voice. "It's—it's the most unholy mess that even you have ever mixed yourself up in. If this girl is really who you say she is, we shall have the whole diplomatic service tumbling over themselves to find her." He paused. "For goodness' sake tell me the whole story at once; there may possibly be some way out of it after all."
"I don't think there is," said Tony contentedly. "Of course I could desert Isabel, but as you have just pointed out to me, that would be very brutal and dishonourable. Anyhow, if you will take a pew and try and look a little less like Sarah Bernhardt, I'll tell you exactly how things stand. Then you can judge for yourself."
Guy resumed his seat, and after pausing to light himself a third cigarette, Tony began to repeat Isabel's romantic history, more or less as she had described it to him at Cookham on the previous day. There was a leisurely style about his method that must have been somewhat provoking to Guy, whose anxiety to hear the whole truth seemed to be of a painful intensity. Tony, however, proceeded in his own unhurried fashion, and by a masterly exhibition of self-control Guy refrained from any comment or interruption until the entire story was told.
Then he sat back in his chair with the stony expression of one who has learnt the worst.
Tony looked at him sympathetically. "One can't very well get out of it, can one, Guy?" he observed. "Of course I might give Isabel a week's notice, but after the bitter and scornful way you spoke to me just now about my selfishness I should hardly like to do that. Besides, as a moral man I strongly disapprove of Pedro's intentions. I think nobody should be allowed to marry who has not led a perfectly pure life."
"Oh, shut up," said Guy; "shut up and let me think." He buried his forehead in his hands for a moment or two, and then looked up again with such a harassed appearance that Tony felt quite sorry for him. "It's—it's worse than I thought," he added despairingly. "What on earth do you imagine is going to be the end of it?"
"I haven't the remotest notion," admitted Tony cheerfully. "The only thing I have quite made up my mind about is that Isabel shan't be forced into marrying Pedro."
"I agree with you there," said Guy with sudden warmth. "It's an infamous proposal. I can't see what's at the bottom of it either unless there is still a party in Livadia who believe in her father's claim. I thought they were pretty well extinct." He paused for a moment, his brow puckered in deep and anxious reflection. "Anyhow," he added, "you have put yourself into a frightfully delicate position. Da Freitas will move heaven and earth to find the girl, and you can be quite sure he will get any possible assistance he asks for from our people."
"I don't believe he'll ask for any," said Tony. "I've got a notion that they want to keep this marriage business as quiet as possible. Why should they have tried to rush it so, otherwise? If that's right they will probably be only too anxious to keep the police out of it, especially since they have seen Isabel with me."
"But do you think her uncle recognized you?"
"Can't say," replied Tony tranquilly. "He only saw me for a second in the hall of the Club, and he was so agitated then that even a beautiful face like mine might have escaped him. Still I should think they were bound to get on our track sooner or later. That's the worst of a carelessly built place like London. One always runs into the people one doesn't want to meet."
"There are those other men too," said Guy, who was evidently pondering each point in the problem—"the men who are following her about. What do you make of them?"
"I shall have to make an example of them," said Tony firmly. "I really can't have dirty foreigners hanging about outside my house. It's so bad for one's reputation."
"Oh, do be serious for a moment," pleaded Guy almost angrily. "We are in this business now, and——"
"We!" echoed Tony with pleasure. "My dear Guy! Do you really mean that you're going to lend us your powerful aid?"
"Of course I am," said Guy impatiently. "I think you were very foolish to mix yourself up in the affair at all, but since you have chosen to do it, you don't suppose that I shall desert you. If ever you wanted assistance I should say you did now."
Tony leaned across, and taking his cousin's hand, shook it warmly over the breakfast table.
"Dear old Guy," he observed. "I always thought that under a rather forbidding exterior you concealed the heart of a true sportsman."
"Nonsense," returned Guy. "I am your secretary, and it's my business to look after you when you make an idiot of yourself." He paused. "Besides," he added, "there is the girl to be considered."
Tony nodded. "Yes," he said, "we must consider Isabel. By the way I have never thanked you for being so nice to her yesterday. She told me that you were perfectly charming."
For a second time Guy's face assumed a faint tinge of colour.
"One couldn't help feeling sorry for the child when one spoke to her," he said stiffly. "It appears to be no fault of her own that she has been put in this impossible position." He hesitated for a moment. "I hope to goodness, Tony," he added, "that you—you——"
Tony laughed softly. "It's quite all right," he said. "Don't be alarmed, Guy. My feelings towards Isabel are as innocent as the dawn." He glanced at the slim gold watch that he wore on his wrist, and then in a leisurely fashion got up from his chair. "I hate to break up this charming breakfast party," he said, "but I must be off. I am going to look up Isabel on my way to Aunt Fanny's. I want to see how many intruding strangers Bugg has murdered in the night."
Guy also rose to his feet.
"I say, Tony," he said. "Let us understand each other quite clearly. However you choose to look at it, this is an uncommonly serious business—and there are some very ugly possibilities in it. We can't afford to treat it as a joke—not if you really want to keep Isabel out of these people's hands."
Tony nodded his head. "I know that, Guy," he said. "I can't help my incurable light-heartedness, but I can assure you that Cousin Henry himself couldn't be more deadly serious about it than I am. I promise you faithfully I won't play the fool."
"Right you are," said Guy. "In that case you can count on me to the utmost."
It was about a quarter of an hour later when Tony pulled up the big Peugot outside Mrs. Spalding's, and climbing down from his seat pushed open the gate. As he did so the door of the house was opened in turn by Bugg, who presented a singularly spruce and animated appearance. His hair had evidently been brushed and brilliantined with extreme care, and he was wearing a tight-fitting black and white check suit that reminded one of a carefully made draught-board.
"Good-morning, Bugg," said Tony, as he came up the steps. "You look very beautiful."
Bugg saluted with a slightly embarrassed smile.
"I brought along me Sunday togs, Sir Ant'ny; seein' as 'ow I was to be livin' in the 'ouse with two ladies."
"Quite right, Bugg," said Tony approvingly. "It's just that thoughtfulness in small matters that makes the true artist in life." He paused to pull off his driving gloves. "Is there any news?" he asked.
Bugg cast a quick warning glance over his shoulder into the house.
"'Ere's the young laidy, sir," he replied in a hoarse whisper. "See yer ahtside after."
He moved away as Isabel came lightly down the stairs, and advanced along the passage to meet them.
She greeted Tony with just the faintest touch of shyness, and then led the way into the small sitting-room on the right.
Here she held out her hand to him, and bowing over it with extreme gravity, Tony kissed the pink tip of one of her fingers.
"I trust your Majesty slept well?" he observed.
She pulled away her hand. "Oh, please don't tease me," she said. "You can't imagine how funny I feel about it all." She paused. "If we hadn't met Uncle Philip yesterday, I believe I should have begun to think the whole thing was a dream."
"Perhaps it is," said Tony. "Personally I shouldn't be a bit surprised if I woke up and found Spalding standing by my bed with a cup of tea."
"It doesn't matter really anyway," said Isabel, "because we are all dreaming the same thing, aren't we? You and I and Bugg, and—and your cousin Mr. Guy."
"Guy certainly is," answered Tony. "You have made a positively devastating conquest of poor Guy. How on earth did you manage to do it?"
Isabel opened her amber eyes. "I don't know," she said innocently. "He was very nice and kind. I only talked to him and smiled at him."
"Ah, that accounts for it," said Tony solemnly.
He put his hat down and seated himself on the sofa. "You really ought to be more careful," he added. "It isn't fair to go about bewitching respectable secretaries. You never know what they may turn into."
"Have you told him?" asked Isabel.
"Everything," said Tony. "He is yearning to plunge into the fray and re-seat you on the throne of Livadia. I left him practising sword exercises in the hall."
Isabel laughed, and opening the bag that was lying on the table beside her took out a little silver cigarette case, which she offered to Tony.
"Do have one," she said. "I bought it yesterday afternoon out of the money you gave me. It was very extravagant, but I love shopping. You see I have not been allowed to do any in London."
Tony, who never smoked anything but Virginian tobacco, helped himself bravely to a gold tipped product of the Turkish Empire, and lit it with apparent zest.
"All the truest pleasure in life comes from doing things one hasn't been allowed to do," he observed. "To enjoy anything properly one ought to go in for a long course of self-denial first."
"I—I suppose you're right," said Isabel doubtfully, "but it's rather difficult, isn't it?"
"I should think it was," said Tony. "I have never tried it myself." He felt in his pocket for a moment, and then pulled out a cheque book, which bore the stamped address of the same Hampstead bank at which he kept his own account.
"This is yours, Isabel," he said handing it across to her. "I have paid the money I got for the brooch into your account, so you can go on shopping as long and fiercely as you like. Do you know how to draw a cheque?"
Isabel nodded. "Oh, yes," she said. "You just fill it in and write your name at the bottom, and then they give you the money. It's quite easy, isn't it."
"Quite," said Tony. "All real miracles are."
Isabel slipped away the cheque book into her bag. Then she looked at Tony with that half childish and wholly delightful smile of hers.
"Now I am rich," she said. "I can begin entertaining." She hesitated. "Should I be doing anything very dreadful—I—I mean from the English point of view—if I asked you to come and have dinner with me somewhere to-night?"
"Of course you wouldn't," said Tony firmly. "A queen has an absolutely free hand about things like that. It's what is called the Royal Prerogative. There is a well established precedent in the case of Queen Elizabeth and the Earl of Leicester."
"That's all right then," said Isabel in a relieved voice. "What time will you come?"
"Quite early," said Tony. "In fact I think I will come to tea if I may. I am lunching with Cousin Henry and his wife and that always makes me thirsty." He glanced at his watch, and then got up from the sofa. "I mustn't stop any longer now," he added. "I have several things to do before I get to Chester Square, and it's so rude to keep people waiting for lunch. Besides it spoils the lunch."
Isabel laughed happily, and rising to her feet gave him her hand again—this time with little or no trace of her former shyness. Indeed it was difficult to be shy with Tony for any very extended period.
"I will see that you have some nice tea anyway," she said. "I will make it for you myself."
Tony paused for a moment on the threshold of the house to exchange his Turkish cigarette for a Virginian, and then strolled off down the garden towards the gate. As he approached the latter it was opened for him by "Tiger" Bugg, who had apparently been waiting patiently beside the car.
"Don't look hup, sir," observed that distinguished welter-weight in a low earnest voice. "Jest carry on saime as if we was talkin' abaht nothin' partic'lar."
With an air of complete indifference Tony strolled across the pavement to the front of the car and lifted up the bonnet. Bugg followed, and bent over the exposed engine beside him, as though pointing out some minor deficiency.
"There's one of them blokes watchin' of us," continued "Tiger" in the same confidential tone. "'E's be'ind the fence opposite. Bin 'anging arahnd 'ere all the blinkin' morning."
"Really!" said Tony gently. "Which of them is it?"
"It's the shorter one, sir. The one I give that flip in the jaw to. I seen 'im w'en I come aht o' the front door this mornin'. 'E was doin' a sorter boy scout stunt be'ind the bushes, and I 'ad 'alf a mind to land 'im with one o' them loose bricks. Then I remembers wot you'd said yesterday—abaht lyin' low like—so I jest 'urns a toon and pretends I 'adn't spotted 'im."
"You have the true instincts of a sleuth, Bugg," observed Tony approvingly.
"I shouldn't be 'alf surprised if they was both abaht somewhere," went on the gratified "Tiger" in a hoarse whisper. "It's my belief, sir, that they mean to 'ang arahnd until they sees a chance of gettin' at the young laidy without no interruptions from us. I'd bet a dollar that if I was to clear off the plaice for 'arf an hour, they'd be shovin' their dirty selves into the 'ouse all right—some'ow or other."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Tony softly. "You have given me an idea, Bugg—a brilliant idea."
He continued to reflect in silence for a moment or two, and then at last he shut down the bonnet with that particularly pleasant smile of his which Guy always declared to be the sure harbinger of approaching trouble.
"I shall return about four o'clock, Bugg," he said. "I think we may have an interesting and instructive afternoon ahead of us—thanks to you."
Bugg sighed happily. "I'll be 'ere, sir," he observed. "I'd like to see that there tall bloke again. I 'ate leavin' a job 'alf finished."
"And meanwhile," said Tony, "take particular care of Miss Francis. It's quite possible there may be somebody else wanting to speak to her privately besides our pals opposite."
Bugg's eyes gleamed. "It don't make no difference to me, sir, 'ow many of 'em there is. Nothin' doin'. That's my motter as far as visitors goes."
Tony nodded approvingly, and entering the car started off down the hill, leaving Bugg standing grimly at the gate, in an attitude that must have been deeply discouraging to any concealed gentleman who might be hoping for an early entrance.
After visiting his tailor in Sackville Street, and discharging one or two other less momentous duties, Tony made his way to Chester Square, where he pulled up outside Lady Jocelyn's house, exactly as the clock of St. Peter's was striking one-thirty.
Punctual as he was Laura and Henry had arrived before him. He heard the former's rich contralto voice in full swing as the maid preceded him up the staircase, and it was with that vague feeling of depression the sound invariably inspired in him that he entered the charmingly furnished little drawing-room.
Lady Jocelyn, who looked rather like an old ivory miniature, was sitting on the sofa, and going up to her Tony bent over and kissed her affectionately. Then he shook hands with both his cousins.
"I have been hearing the most wonderful things about you, Tony," said Lady Jocelyn. "If I didn't dislike veal so much I should certainly have killed the fatted calf for lunch. Is it really true that you are going to become the member for—for—where is it, Laura?"
"Balham North," remarked Laura firmly.
She was a tall fair-haired lady, with thin lips, a masterful nose, and a pair of relentless blue eyes.
"I believe it's quite true, Aunt Fanny," returned Tony. "In fact I understand it has all been arranged except for the formality of consulting the natives."
"How splendid," said Lady Jocelyn. "And who are the natives? I always thought Balham was still unexplored."
Tony shook his head. "Oh, no," he said. "Henry has been right into the interior. He can even speak the language—can't you, Henry?"
"There is nothing to laugh at about Balham," said Henry a little stiffly. "It is one of the best residential suburbs in London."
"And extremely well educated politically," put in Laura in her clear incisive voice. "I have been looking into the matter, and I find that our various temperance and purity leagues have no less than seven branches there, and that the reports from all of them are distinctly encouraging. On the whole I regard it as one of the must hopeful constituencies in London."
Lady Jocelyn looked a little puzzled. "What do they hope for?" she inquired.
"Lunch, m'lady," remarked the parlour-maid, opening the door.
"In that case," said Tony gravely, "they couldn't have chosen a more efficient representative."
Like the wise woman she was, Lady Jocelyn always had an excellent cook, and a single glance at the menu as they settled themselves down round the table had an inspiriting effect upon the entire party. Even Laura was not wholly exempt from its influence. Though a stern advocate of the superior food value of lentils and beans as far as the poor were concerned, she herself had a very handsome appreciation for the less scientific forms of diet. She ate with enthusiasm and staying power; after a second helping of mousse of ham and cold asparagus, she became more affable than Tony had ever seen her.
"I can hardly describe the satisfaction that Tony's decision to stand has given to Henry and me," she observed to Lady Jocelyn. "We have been trying for years to persuade him to do something worthy of his position. A life of empty pleasure is such an appallingly bad example for the poor."
"I am not quite sure that I agree with you there," said Tony. "I believe the possibility of being able to live eventually in complete idleness is one of the few real incentives to hard work. There ought to be one or two examples about, so that people can realize how pleasant that sort of life is."
"You have done your share, Tony," said Lady Jocelyn consolingly. "You will be able to go to sleep in the House of Commons with a perfectly clear conscience."
"Of course you are joking, Aunt Fanny," said Henry. "You are much too well informed to believe that sort of nonsense. I doubt if there is a more arduous profession in the world than being a member of Parliament—provided of course that a man takes his work seriously. Tony has promised us that he will do that."
"And we shall be there to keep him up to it," added Laura crisply.
Lady Jocelyn looked at Tony with some sympathy. "I only hope he won't break down," she said. "It's not everyone who can stand these severe strains."
"Oh, Tony's as sound as a bell," returned Henry a little contemptuously. "Hard work will do him all the good in the world—it's just what he wants. I have been advising him to take up some special subject and master it thoroughly before he goes into the House. It's the only way to get on quickly nowadays." He turned to Tony. "Have you thought that over at all yet? I mean do you feel a special leaning towards any particular question?"
Tony took a long drink of champagne and put down his glass.
"Yes, Henry," he said, "during the last two days I have discovered that foreign politics have a remarkable attraction for me."
"Foreign politics!" repeated Henry. "Well, they're an interesting subject, but I should have thought you would have found them a little too—too—what shall we say—too remote."
Tony shook his head. "No," he said, "I haven't found that. Of course I don't know very much about them yet, but I expect to be learning quite a lot before long."
"Well, that's the right spirit anyway," said Henry heartily. "When I get back I will instruct my secretary to send you along some White Books to study. Remember if there is anything we can do to help you—introductions you would like or anything of that sort—don't hesitate to ask us."
"I won't," said Tony.
Harmoniously as matters had been proceeding up to this point, the remainder of the lunch party was even more of a pronounced success. It was evident that Tony's sudden and surprising absorption in world politics was highly approved of both by Henry and Laura, who seemed to regard it as a sign that he was beginning to take his Parliamentary career with becoming seriousness. If at times old Lady Jocelyn's twinkling black eyes suggested a certain amount of scepticism in the matter, she at least said nothing to disturb this pleasant impression, while Tony himself sustained his new rôle with that imperturbable ease of manner which never seemed to desert him.
It was nearly half-past three before Laura and Henry rose to go, and then they took their leave with an approving friendliness that reminded one of a tutor saying good-bye to a promising pupil.
"I will have those White Books sent round at once," said Henry, warmly shaking his cousin's hand. "There is a new one just issued dealing with the Patagonia boundary dispute. You will find it most interesting."
"It sounds ripping," said Tony.
"And you needn't worry a bit about your election," added Laura. "Henry's seat is so safe that I shall be able to give up my entire time to helping you."
"Thatwillbe nice, won't it, Tony?" said Lady Jocelyn innocently.
She rose to her feet with the aid of her ebony stick, and taking Henry's arm accompanied him and Laura to the head of the staircase, where she said good-bye to them both. She then came back into the room, and closing the door behind her, shook her head slowly and reprovingly at the future member for Balham North.
"I should like to know exactly what pleasant surprise you are preparing for them, Tony," she said.
Tony came up, and putting his arm round her, conducted her gently to her customary place on the sofa.
"I wonder if the Prodigal Son had a sceptical aunt?" he said sadly.
With a little chuckle Lady Jocelyn settled herself into her seat. "Probably," she replied; "and if she carved the veal I have no doubt she gave him the best helping."
Tony stood back and surveyed her affectionately. "Do you know what an Enterprise is, Aunt Fanny?" he asked. "An Enterprise with a large capital E at the beginning?"
Lady Jocelyn looked up at him with an air of mild surprise.
"I believe it is a thing that people prosecute," she replied. "Why do you ask?"
"I am engaged on one," said Tony. "I can't tell you what it is to-day, because I have got to go in three minutes, and I always stammer if I try to talk quickly. Besides it's too interesting to hurry over."
"My dear Tony," said Lady Jocelyn; "you fill me with curiosity. If you don't come round again soon and tell me all about it I shall never forgive you."
"I shall come," said Tony. "I fancy it's going to be one of those enterprises which will absorb a good deal of advice and assistance."
"You can count on mine," said Lady Jocelyn, "even if I have to imperil my hitherto unblemished reputation in Chester Square."
Tony bent down and kissed her cheek. "Dear Aunt Fanny," he said. "I should certainly propose to you if it wasn't forbidden in the prayer-book."
Lady Jocelyn laughed and patted his hand. "I appreciate the compliment, Tony," she said, "but perhaps it's just as well as it is. I am getting old, and you would be a very bad preparation for the next world." She paused. "Remember," she added; "if you don't come back within three days and tell me all about the Enterprise I shall put the matter in the hands of the S.P.C.A."