XXXIII
Defeatedby the absurdity of the situation Lord Duckingfield suddenly ended his interview with Miss Cass. He still had a desire to chastise her. But there were certain reservations in his mind in regard to the little donkey. She had been inconceivably weak, inconceivably foolish, inconceivably vain; nevertheless it was the real Lady Elfreda who must be asked to pay the bill. Even the indignant fancy of my lord hardly knew how to paint the wanton cynicism of that young woman.
In the midst of the preposterous scene with the incredible Miss Cass the angry gentleman felt a craving for fresh air. He warded off that lady’s threat of hysteria by turning his back upon her and striding to the hall door. Let him banish her from his mind—at any rate until he had been able to think over the matter in all its bearings and he had made some attempt to adjust his mental processes to a quite unparalleled affair.
However, as he learned all too soon, even that modest program was not going to be easy to fulfill. For as he came to the hall door he found himself in the midst of flurry and commotion. The Park omnibus was in the act of arrival from the station. With pomp andcircumstance it had just drawn up to the threshold and was solemnly disgorging a really imposing vision on to the front steps.
The honest Duckingfield, confronted by a purple visage with a monocle glowing in the middle, an overcoat trimmed with astrachan and a superb expanse of buff gaiter, had to take a very tight hold upon himself. The worthy Midlander was not in any way a brilliant fellow, but five and forty years of traffic with the world had imbued him with a keen sense of the human comedy. This somewhat superlative arrival of Lady Elfreda’s father cast quite a strain upon his resources.
“Hallo, Ducks!” Lord Carabbas offered the large and genial hand of his race. “Good of you to send that wire. How’s that unfortunate girl of mine?”
“Oh, better—she’s much better.” But the eye of Ducks was a little evasive; anyhow, it sedulously avoided the eye of the noble marquis.
“Devilish glad to hear it.” Paterfamilias appeared to be greatly relieved. “I thought from your wire, that she was in for a bad time. Been overdoing it, evidently.”
“Ye-es, overdoing it—been overdoing it.” Ducks again avoided the eye of the anxious parent.
“Great strain, these theatrical performances, hey?”
“No doubt.”
“Hope she hasn’t upset the whole house.”
“Oh, no—not at all.” Ducks drew on his reserve of conventional politeness.
“Well, I’ll go and have a look at ’Freda. See you anon.”
Lord Carabbas passed into the house. Lord Duckingfield passed out of it. Perhaps it was a pity some imp of mischief did not prompt the worthy Midlander to stay and witness the progress of his distinguished friend. Lord Carabbas, a mass of judicious pomp and fair weather geniality, waddled slowly across the hall parquet. En route he passed a pretty little girl shivering by the log fire in the lee of the stairs. The gallant Irishman, with an unrivaled eye for female charms, noted her with a smile of approval.
It was a dank morning of November, but for nearly an hour the man from the Midlands traipsed solemnly round the park. His mind was in strange disorder; the oddest things were happening in it, but amid the flux of thought one phrase slowly crystallized. And the phrase was significant. “If she belonged to me,” it ran, “by gad, I think I know what I should like to do with her.” And the grip of a very honest man tightened on the stout ash plant in his hand.