Scenes From An Aftermath

24

Scenes From An Aftermath

    White’s: some time after the dinner hour. Mr Bobby Amory’s elegant back might have been discerned in the midst of a huddle of gentlemen. His hand described an elegant parabola in the air above his head. Simultaneously he produced a long whistle, diminuendo. The huddle of gentlemen collapsed in roars of laughter.

    It was a lovely fresh morning. Sir Noël had considerable business he intended for this morning, but first—

    Pug Chalfont gambolled joyfully up to him, yapping excitedly.

    “No: stay. Stay!” He forced the sturdy little hindquarters to the grass. Pug looked up at him out of big, hopeful dark eyes, panting. “Sta-ay... Good dog! Good boy, Pug Chalfont. Now: stay.” He walked cautiously away from him.

    Pug Chalfont gambolled joyfully after him, yapping excitedly...

    “Trot ’em in,” ordered Mrs Urqhart, smothering a yawn.

    The three young ladies present watched excitedly as Dom brought the posies in. He read the first card. He shook his head slowly. “Strange. Henri-Louis. Weeth deepest apologies: for Nan.”

    “Apologies?” said Susan. “How very odd indeed!”

    Shaking slightly, Mrs Urqhart said: “Aye, ain’t it? Next!”

    “Uh—thees ees odd: Wilf Rowbotham. Weeth deepest apologies: for Nan.”

    “Another?” cried Daphne in bewilderment.

    Mrs Urqhart shook all over but managed to say: “Next!”

    Dom picked up the next card. “Good gad! There ees only one explanation, he must have been foxed—begging your pardons, young ladies.”

    “Who is it from?” cried Tarry.

    “Wilf Rowbotham again. Weeth deepest apologies: for Cherry.”

     Mrs Urqhart collapsed in a helpless wheezing fit.

    Mr Rowbotham was discovered sitting up in bed with his nightcap on very crooked sipping coffee as if, judging by the expression on his face, it had been hemlock.

    “Get up,” said Sir Noël grimly to his old friend.

    Wincing, Mr Rowbotham set his cup down. “No, I say, can we not talk this ov—”

    “Get UP!”

    “—calmly,” he said sadly, getting out of bed. “But dear fellow, was not myself t’other morning!”

    Noël grasped him by the front of his nightshirt. “Are you yourself now?”

    “Yes. Well, brutal head, y’know,” he said, injudiciously shaking it. “Ow!”

    The baronet released him and stood back. “Then I propose knocking you flat.”

    “Noël, look here, dear old boy, when a fellow is not himself, he don’t know what he is doin’! And besides, it weren’t my fault if Miss C. let go of the pu—”

    Sir Noël knocked him onto his bed with a smashing right to the midriff.

    Mr Rowbotham lay flat, moaning gently.

    “And thank your lucky stars it’s only my fist and not Vane after you with a pistol! Do you realize he could have been killed?”

    Mr Rowbotham merely lay flat, moaning gently.

    Fioravanti’s fencing salon: mid-morning. Mr Ferdy Sotheby was being honoured by Henri-Louis. Their bout having ended in the signal defeat of the former, Mr Sotheby expressed his profound gratification, and they strolled off arm-in-arm to change. As they did so there was a stir by the door. Mr Sotheby looked round. He raised his eyebrows somewhat and murmured “I say, sir, that fellow does not look altogether nimble on his feet. Do he intend to fight, do you imagine?”

    Henri-Louis looked. His slender shoulders shook. “Perhaps he intentions another encounter!” he hissed.

    “Hey?”

    Le petit Monsieur murmured confidentially in Mr Sotheby’s ear. Mr Sotheby gave a joyous yelp, and collapsed in splutters.

    By the door His Highness the Prince Frédéric was graciously informing the flattered Signor Fioravanti that he had come to watch Herr Gneissen-Maltzahn. The splutters at the other side of the room escaped his notice.

    The Colonel had argued that he was perfectly fit and not in the least feverish or in pain. Mr Poulter, however, was aware that he had passed a very bad night, and he, the short but wide Mr Breckinridge and the bony Mrs Arkwright in combination had managed to force him to stay abed and rest. He had slept heavily during a large part of the morning. Since he had woken, however... Well, it did not fall within the definition of rest, though he did not get up.

    Clara Vane was at his bedside when he woke. “Ma says, that chicken ’as cooked up not ’alf good and yer did oughter get some broth down yer.”

    “Er—just a very small portion, please, Clara Vane.”

    Little Miss McInnery was next. “Pray forgive the intrusion of little me! But you know we’re all very worried about you, at Number 16: you’ve been and gorn and given us all a nasty fright!”

    The generous portion of chicken broth had almost succeeded in sending Colonel Vane off to sleep again. He roused himself, blinking. “Very kind, Miss McInnery. But I’m not ill, y’know. Just indulging myself.”

    “Now, now, Colonel, that ain’t so! Why, Mr Poulter tells me as how you was mutterink to yourself all night long!”

    “Poulter exaggerates.”

    Miss McInnery shook her bright-eyed little head at him. And proffered her healing gift. An egg posset. With nutmeg: her Ma’s own receet. Limply the Colonel drank it. It was disgusting, but he could not shew himself ungrateful: a whole egg represented a not inconsiderable expense to the tiny seamstress.

    He was lying back trying to fool himself that his arm was not throbbing like the Devil, when there was a loud pounding noise on the stairs, and Miss Gertrude Wotton panted in. It must be her mealtime. Colonel Vane was aware that the buttonholer did not get a very generous time in which to consume her midday meal. He struggled upright against his pillows.

    “Lor’!” she panted.—No doubt she had run all the way. She did normally pant, rather, and she was normally rather red-faced, but both of these characteristics were at the moment much exaggerated.—“You don’t ’alf look bad, Colonel!”

    “I’m not bad, truly, Miss Gertrude,” said the Colonel feebly.

    “Ma said as ’ow your arm was tore open,” she reported with something like relish.

    “No, it’s just a flesh wound.”

    Miss Gertrude looked avidly at the sling, but to his surprise did not ask to see the wound.

    “I really should be up on my feet,” said the Colonel feebly, as she then just stood and looked at him expectantly, rather as if he might at any moment turn himself into a raree show.

    She shook her head hard. “Mr Poulter says you’ve gotta stay in bed.” Suddenly she thrust a small can with a lid on it at him.

    “For me?”—She nodded hard.—“This is very kind,” said the Colonel limply. He opened it, with some difficulty.

    “Mr Green and Mr Hodges, they said as it were the best,” said Miss Gertrude proudly. “It be a bracer, you see.”

    It certainly smelt like a bracer, yes. Porter well laced with rum, was his guess. And... peppermint? Hell.

    “I shall take some now and save some for later, if I should feel poorly.”

    “Aye, that’s the ticket!” she beamed, nodding hard.

    Bravely Colonel Vane drank some of it. It was peppermint, all right.

    Miss Gertrude grinned, bobbed, and pounded out. He heard her footsteps pounding down the stairs, and the slam of the front door. No doubt she was running all the way back to Mr Green’s.

    Ten minutes later Mrs Minns from the next-door house popped in. She had popped in twice yesterday to assure herself he was all right. Now she was just popping in with some soup. Very nourishing: it was a receet of her Ma’s. Beef bones stewed up with turnip tops and a little onion, well strained, and then just a drop of brandy added, for strengthening.

    What with the porter and the rum on top of half-curdled egg with nutmeg, not to mention the peppermint, which he could still distinctly taste, the Colonel was forced to admit that he felt rather hot, so he would save it for later.

    Mrs Minns anxiously felt his forehead, ascertained he was rather hot, set the soup carefully aside, and sat by him for half an hour, kindly fanning him. It would have been most restful, but for the fact that she favoured him with the medical histories of several acquaintances who had also suffered wounds of various kinds. With emphasis on the “suffered.”

    She must have been gone for at least fifteen minutes when her friend Mrs Porter popped in. Complete with Jerry Porter, aged seven and a half, who gaped even more avidly at the sling than had Miss Gertrude Wotton.

    “Can I see it?” he piped.

    Mrs Porter directed a cuff at his head. “’Old yer peace, you! Yer can’t see it, no. I never ’eard o’ such a thing: asking to see a gent’s wound! –’Ere, Colonel, sir, I hope as ’ow it ain’t got no splinters in it?”

    The Colonel assured her it had not, but to no avail: Mrs Porter favoured him with the histories of several acquaintances who had had splinters, the which had variously worked themselves out, painfully. Or in, painfully; or even travelled to the heart and proved fatal. He listened courteously, wondering what proportion of such tales had any basis at all in physiological fact, and if not, how they arose.

    White’s: mid-afternoon. Several older gentleman were holding an animated conversation near to the bow-window. It stopped abruptly when Hugh Throgmorton and General Sir Francis Kernohan came in.

    The two sat down at a little distance.  “Francis, have you noticed—er—something in the air?” said the elderly gentleman.

    Sir Francis nodded grimly. “Just lately, yes. Do you know what it’s about?”

    “I am not sure. But I called in on my nephew David, this morning—you know he is laid up with a broken leg—and he mentioned that Bobby Amory had dropped in on him earlier, with some story about Lewis Vane and the Prince Frédéric having—er—been involved in an encounter.” He looked at him apologetically.

    General Sir Francis’s beautiful mouth tightened. “I see. Thank you, Hugh.”

    Boodle’s: mid-afternoon. Mr Rowbotham, though tender around the midriff, was otherwise entirely recovered. His slender back might have been discerned in the midst of a huddle of gentlemen. His hand described an elegant parabola in the air above his head. Simultaneously he produced a long whistle, diminuendo. The huddle of gentlemen collapsed in roars of laughter...

    Colonel Vane was almost asleep in the wake of Mrs Porter’s visitation, hoping groggily he would not have bad dreams, when Mrs Arkwright came in, looking grim.

    “It’s ’er.”

    He blinked and struggled to sit up.

    She came over to assist him but said: “I can send ’er orf with a flea in ’er ear.”

    “No, thank you, I’d best see her. Is she wearing crimson with fluff?”

    Mrs Arkwright merely answered with a rending sniff, and went out.

    Nam came in looking defiant. She was carrying a basket and accompanied by Albert, positively staggering under the weight of his basket.

    “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,” said Lewis Vane limply.

    “I am not Greek!”

    The Colonel evinced no surprise at Lady Benedict’s understanding the aphorism, and merely returned: “Where’s the pug?”

    “I deed not bring heem. I have brought you some comforts, and eef you refuse them I shall persuade your man to accept them!”

    “Lady Benedict, I’m not ill,” he said with a sigh.

    “Rubbeesh. You look tairribly feverish.”

    “I’ve been lying in an over-warm room, being fed on thick chicken soup, egg posset, and alcoholic pick-me-ups half the day: what do you expect?”

    Nan came over to the bed looking determined. She removed her glove and put her hand on his forehead. “Hot as fire,” she said grimly. “Albert, go and tell Dr Crayshaw he ees needed after all, please.”

    “My Lady—”

    “GO!”

    Albert went.

    “Lady Benedict,” said Lewis feebly as she bent over him, “has it not occurred to you that any man with red blood in his veins might become somewhat overheated if you er—approached your delightful bosom to his face and put your hand on his forehead, so?”

    “Rubbeesh.” She untied the sling carefully. Poulter had made him wear a nightshirt, but it was open over his chest, and the wounded arm was out of it. She peered at the bandage. “How often has thees been changed?”

    “Too often,” he said heavily.

    Nan sniffed. “Well, we shall see what Dr Crayshaw says. But een the meantime I theenk eet ees too tight: the arm ees swollen.” She went over to his washstand and rinsed her hands.

    “Have you any experience of sick-nursing?” he said faintly.

    “Do not be rideeculous. –Clara,” she said as the little girl came and hovered in the doorway: “you may come and help eef you weesh. But either come een or go out: you are creating a draught weeth that door open.”

    Clara Vane shut the door and came in. “I could ’old the bowl, Miss!”

    “Yes, vairy well, hold the bowl.”

    She removed the bandage carefully, dampening it with water from Clara’s bowl when it seemed to stick. The jagged wound was a little oozy and the flesh around it puffy and red. She looked at it carefully.

    It was at an awkward angle for Lewis: he peered at it.

    “Sit steell. Lift your arm.”

    “I cannot do both.”

    “Lift your arm!”

    Lewis lifted his arm. She inspected the underside of it. “Do you recommend amputation?” he said sardonically.

    “No. Eet does not seem to be poisoned.”

    “’Ow can yer tell?” asked Clara Vane.

    “There would be a nasty red line running from the wound up hees arm, towards hees heart, you see?”

    She nodded seriously.

    “I suppose,” said the Colonel to the ceiling: “that this answers one of my questions: passed on from one generation of old wives to the next.”

    “Just be silent,” said Nan with a sigh. She bathed the wound, put some James’s powder on it, and bound it up again, not so tightly as Poulter had. “Ees that easier?”

    “Yes. Thank you,” he said as she readjusted the sling, the bosom again very near his face. “Where is Poulter?”

    “’E’s gorn out, Colonel!” said Clara Vane helpfully.

    “I see.”

    “Dunno where.”

    “No; very well.”

    Nan took the bowl from the little girl and bustled around clearing away. Clara got very close to the bed. “She’s got a blackamoor!”

    “Eh?”

    She nodded hard, à la Miss Gertrude Wotton. “And she brung three girls!”

    “Three— Well, where are they? Lady Benedict, if you have some companions, I think it would not be ineligible for them to sit in my sitting-room.”

    Nan came back to the bed. “I theenk you do not perfectly understand. They are not three young ladies, but my leetle girls. And Johnny ees also weeth us.”

    “Oh,” he said, taken aback. “Well—well, there is no need for them to sit in the carriage.”

    “No!” cried Clara Vane scornfully. “She took ’em upstairs to Miss McInnery!”

    “They are all having feettings,” explained Nan. “Since I was coming here anyway, I thought they might as well.”

    “And the blackamoor!” agreed Clara.

    “She ees not a blackamoor, Clara, she ees an Indian woman. She ees my leetle girls’ nurse. Her name is Rani.”

    “I never ’eard of no-one called Runny, afore,” she said suspiciously.

    “That ees because eet ees an Indian name.” Nan pulled up a chair to the head of the bed and sat on it composedly.

    “I see,” said Colonel Vane in a limp voice, “that you are both practical and provident, ma’am.”

    She glanced at him indifferently. “I theenk you said sometheeng of the sort before. But I am, yes. I theenk a mother must learn to be.”

    “I could mention some in this very street that are completely harum-scarum, on the contrary,” he murmured.

    “Mrs Rose Bodger, ’er as were Rose Minns afore she married ’im, poor feller,” identified Clara Vane sapiently.

    “Quite.”

    “One day she left the baby in the baker’s,” Clara Vane explained.

    “Walked off and left eet?” gasped Nan in horror.

    “Yes. ’Er and that Glo Stutt, they was gossipink with Mrs Dearden, she’s the baker’s wife, what ’elps in the shop, and orf she goes with ’er buns but without the baby!”

    “As one might lay down a package and forget one had been carrying it,” explained the Colonel courteously.

    Nan nodded numbly. “How dreadful.”

    “Aye, it were, only Mrs Dearden, she sends their Tommy after ’er like lightnin’, screechink ’is ’ead orf, so it were all right in the h’end,” explained Clara Vane kindly.

    “Mm. So you see, Lady Benedict, motherhood does not ipso facto confer common sense and practicality.”

    “Oh—no. Well, I suppose eet ees my nature,” said Nan feebly.

     Clara Vane nodded wisely. “Can I see your little girl?” she asked hopefully.

    “Well, yes, there ees nothing to stop you, Clara. Do you want to run up to Miss McInnery’s?”

    “No, she said as ’ow there were a crowd,” she reported sadly.

    “Oh. Well, Rosebud does not need much feetting, she ees the same measurement all the way down.”—The Colonel choked.—“I theenk we could go and fetch her, no?”

    Clara Vane nodded eagerly.

    Nan got up, holding out her hand. “Come along, then. –Just stay een that bed and do not move!” she added threateningly.

    “I shouldn’t dare to.”

    She gave him one last glare and was gone.

    Lewis lay back against his pillows and gave a weak laugh. Oddly, it came out very much weaker than he had intended.

    Two young gentlemen were proceeding down the street arm-in-arm. Upon nearing Prince Frédéric and his companions they doffed their hats with exaggerated flourishes and bowed very low. Graciously Pom-Pom acknowledged this gesture with a slight nod. He did not notice that, having safely passed his party, the two young gentlemen fell against each other, shaking ecstatically.

    “Gawd, another one?” said Mrs Urqhart feebly as her son’s butler came in with a posy on a salver.

    “For Mrs Stewart, madam,” he said, bowing. “With Mr Amory’s compliments.”

    Mrs Urqhart was driven to sit bolt upright on her sofa. “Eh? Well, where is ’e?”

    “He did not stay, Mrs Urqhart: just delivered the flowers.”

    “Give ’em to ’er, then,” she said irritably. “Lord, what’s comin’ to us all? Bobby turned coy?”

    Tarry and Cherry were spending a quiet afternoon with the two older ladies. Cherry’s reading in Bath had been strictly overseen by her mother: she was eagerly devouring Rob Roy, which for reasons known solely to Mrs Chalfont had heretofore been deemed unsuitable for her, and Tarry, no-one present had been unkind enough to enquire why, was struggling with a book of sermons. Tarry now looked hopefully at Cousin Catriona but politely refrained from asking what the card said.

    “Apologies?” asked Mrs Urqhart, raising an eyebrow.

    “Yes,” Mrs Stewart admitted in a stifled voice.

    “Eh? The Portuguese Widow?” croaked Aden Tarlington.

    “Lord, she actually turned up at the ground?” gasped Mr Shirley Rowbotham.

    Mr Rowbotham had not divulged the whole to mere acquaintances, but Mr Tarlington was a very old friend, and Mr Shirley was his own brother. He had not held back.

    “Lewis Vane and— Oh, good God, that explains it!” said the sapient Mr Tarlington.

    “Eh?” returned the Rowbotham brothers.

    “That day that Lewis Vane called in at White’s apparently in order only to— Never mind. Go on, Wilf, what happened? Vane deloped, did he?”

    “He must have,” agreed Mr Shirley. “I mean: old Pom-Pom!”

    Mr Rowbotham shook his head. “Guess.”

    “My God, no-one was hurt?” gasped Mr Tarlington.

    “Uh—well, Vane took a ball in the arm—nothing at all, dear boy, assure you!”

    Mr Tarlington gave him a dry look. “Enough to make you cast up your accounts?”

    Glaring at this unwelcome reminder of a previous incident, Mr Rowbotham said loudly: “No! And if you is goin’ to be like that I shan’t tell you the best bit!”

    “I promise I shall not be like that, old fellow. Tell us the best bit!”

    Mr Rowbotham’s pleasant if vacuous face spilt wide in a huge grin. He lowered his voice... His hand described an elegant parabola in the air above his head. He produced a long whistle, diminuendo.

    Mr Tarlington and Mr Shirley duly collapsed in roars of laughter.

    “It’s that doctor feller,” announced Mrs Arkwright grimly. “I told him it were all ’er idea to send for ’im, and you ain’t sick.”

    Dr Crayshaw bustled in looking busy but was brought up short by the sight of Colonel Vane, Rosebud and Clara all on the bed with their cheeks bulging.

    The Colonel, apparently overcome by the sight of Rosebud, had immediately taken her on his knee. Astoundingly, Rosebud had not either shrieked or shrank as he told her what a pretty girl she was and asked how many teeth she had. On the contrary, she had beamed and displayed her teeth. The present state of the cheeks was explained by Clara’s having helped Nan to unpack the baskets. The heavy one had contained, besides innumerable jars of calves’ foot jelly and similar invalid comforts, many packets of Indian treats. If Lewis had felt at one point inclined to spurn Lady Benedict’s over-generous offerings, one look at Clara Vane’s face had dissuaded him,

    “He ees a leetle hot, Doctor,” said Nan quickly, “but not truly feverish. But eet ees the wound eetself that I weesh you to see.”

    “Well, I’ll look, but Nature must take its course.”

     Lewis swallowed hurriedly. “Thank you for coming, Crayshaw.”

    “Never mind that, let’s get on with it.”

    “More!” cried Rosebud as Nan hurriedly reclaimed her. “Mo-ore!”

    “Hush, darling, Rosebud baba shall have more later, no?”

    “She’s spoilt, ain’t she?” ascertained Clara Vane.

    “Just a leetle, mm,” said Nan weakly.

    “Best take ’em out, ma’am,” said the doctor.

    “No, I weesh to stay and hear your observations, Doctor.”

    “So do I!” cried Clara Vane.

     Dr Crayshaw’s and Lewis’s eyes met for a pregnant moment. The doctor took a deep breath and got on with it.

    White’s: mid-afternoon. Pom-Pom was about to enter the club when three gentlemen came out. Gratifyingly, immediately on perceiving him Lord Geddings, Captain Postlethwaite and Mr Kendall all snatched off their hats and bowed very low.

    At the Prince’s side, Major Gneissen-Maltzahn and the Baron del Giglio winced: the hats had been snatched off with a most exaggerated gesture, and raised very, very high: surely it could not be long before His Highness realized…

    Mrs Urqhart sat up with a jerk, straightening her lace cap. “Eh?”

    Tarry repeated loudly: “Uncle Francis is here, Aunt Betsy!”

    “Lawks, already?” she muttered to herself. “Send ’im in,” she said to the footman.

    The handsome old general greeted Mrs Urqhart, Mrs Stewart and the two girls very properly, asked kindly after Pug, on the rug sleeping the sleep of a pug who had been relentlessly drilled in the Park for a good part of a morning, and requested the favour of a word alone with Mrs Urqhart. Grimacing to herself, Mrs Urqhart conceded this, and they went into the bookroom.

    He cleared his throat. “I do not know if you are aware of certain odd rumours—”

    “Yes, yes. I’ll tell you the whole,” she groaned. “Sit down, do.”

    The elderly gent was shocked, of course, but also hurt that Nan had not come to him in the first instance. Mrs Urqhart swallowed a sigh. He then, hurt feelings or no, very kindly volunteered to escort his niece and Miss Chalfont on a little stroll.

    “You gotta admire ’im,” Mrs Urqhart concluded heavily.

    “Well?” said Colonel Vane on a sardonic note as the door closed after Dr Crayshaw.

    Nan returned grimly: “He said what I expected.”

    “You could not have expected that I would attempt to use the arm too much yester afternoon, surely?”

    She gave him a scornful look, but merely said: “I shall leave these theengs for you. I hope that you weell make good use of them.”

    “Oh, so you don’t intend to stay and spoon-feed me?”

    She took a deep breath. “Come along. Rosy-Posy baba, we’ll find the girls and Johnny, and then go home, no?”

    “But am I not to meet the girls?” protested the Colonel.

    “Pooh, you do not een the least weesh to meet them!”

    “But of course l do.”

    Nan looked at him in bafflement.

    “’Course ’e do, Miss!” urged Clara.

    She swallowed a sigh. “Vairy well, I shall fetch them.”

    “You may leave Rosebud with me,” said the Colonel with a smile in his deep voice.

    “Eef she weell stay... Rosebud baba, you stay weeth Colonel Vane, no? Just unteell Mamma comes back weeth Amrita and Mina, and Johnny and Rani?”

    Rosebud allowed herself to be deposited on the Colonel’s bed with apparently no regrets or fears at all. Nan went out slowly, looking over her shoulder, but her small daughter, now playing an entrancing game with the Colonel’s nose, ignored her.

    “He likes children, does he not?” she said feebly on the stairs to Clara.

    “’Course ’e do!”

    Oh, of course: yes. Exactly what one might have expected of a man who... But Nan felt that she could no longer even begin to define Colonel Vane, not even by his actions.

    Pretty Polly de la Plante had encountered an old acquaintance who had picked up an entrancin’ rumour at White’s: could it possibly be true? Sniggering, the Vicomte proceeded to enlighten him. The old acquaintance fell all over the pavement, laughing himself silly. Highly gratified, Pretty Polly then imparted the further choice tidbid that he would take his dying oath that Colonel Vane had deliberately aimed at the hat with the intention of taking it and the wig off! Promptly the old acquaintance fell all over the pavement, laughing himself silly.

    Not altogether to anyone’s surprise, Lord Curwellion was gratifying Mrs Gratton-Gordon by an appearance at her salon. He had picked up an amusing story at White’s...

    Mrs Gratton-Gordon forgot that this afternoon’s salon had been intended to be quite highbrow and literary-political, and collapsed in squealing hysterics, hitting him with her fan. At that three other ladies and four other gentlemen, all of whom had been finding the literary-political thing rather heavy going, clustered round them demanding to hear it. Lord Curwellion, nothing loath, obliged.

    “Go straight in, sir,” said a hoarse voice just as Nan had at last persuaded the company to drag itself away from the apparently entrancing sight of Colonel Vane in bed with his arm in a sling. She bit her lip, and turned slowly.

    For a moment Mr Tobias Vane did not recognize the young matron in the respectable black bonnet and pelisse, holding a tiny girl. Then his plump jaw sagged.

    “Good afternoon, Mr Vane,” said Nan in a weak voice.

    “Good afternoon, Lady Benedict,” he croaked.

    “Hullo, Tobias; there was no need for you to rush round here, dear fellow, I merely have a scratch on the arm,” said Lewis.

    Mr Poulter had followed the Colonel’s cousin, with a defiant look on his face. “I thought as someone ’ad better know. In the case you went and dropped dead on us, fool that you be. Afternoon, me Lady; they tell me you’ve ’ad the doctor to ’im.”

    “Yes, eendeed, Mr Poulter. He tells me that the state of the arm ees what he expected, and that eet shows every sign that eet weell heal nicely. But your master ees to continue to rest eet for the rest of the week. And he must not take alcoholic remedies, they tend to induce fever.”

    “Right, I’ll remember that, me Lady. Thank you.”

    “And you can remember also not to truss me up like the Christmas goose,” added his master. “—She’s brought one, by the way.”

    “No such theeng!” she cried indignantly. To the man she said: “Eet ees only a leetle confit d’oie: potted, you know.”

    “Right you are, me Lady,” he returned, mystified but grateful.

    “But the bandages must not be too tight, Mr Poulter, that ees what your master means,” she added anxiously. “Eet ees not like strapping up a broken limb.”

    “I gets your drift, me Lady.”

    “Good. Then I theenk we had best be off. –Ssh, children,” she said as they made an outcry. “Yes, thees ees the man weeth the one eye: hees name ees Mr Poulter.”

    “Can’t I look, Mamma?” cried Mina.

    “Not een company, my lamb. Another time, yes? Er, good-day, Mr Vane; I am so glad to see that one of hees family has come.”

    “Thank you!” called the Colonel loudly as the door closed after her.

    “I’m sorry!” she gasped, opening it again. “I forgot to say goodbye, Colonel Vane!”

    “Au revoir, Lady Benedict,” he said solemnly. “And thank you for the comforts.”

    “Not at all. I shall send to see how you go on,” said Nan, now very red and not meeting his eye. “Goodbye. Goodbye, Mr Vane.” She exited hurriedly.

    The stout Mr Vane sat down slowly. “My dear Lewis, how comes this about? Why did you not apprise the family immediately? And—and what on earth was Lady Benedict doing here? I apprehend that that was her family?”

    Lewis sighed. “I suppose I had best tell you the whole. Um—look, for God’s sake, Tobias, don’t mention Lady Benedict in connection with any of this, will you?”

    Mr Vane looked offended. “I assure you that you may rely utterly on my discretion.”

    Colonel Vane thought that he could: yes. Tobias was a pompous old stick, but he was discreet enough. Sighing, he told him the whole. More or less. Such topics as his own motivations and Lady Benedict’s vain persuasion were left out of it.

    “My dear Lewis, this was entirely irresponsible! Why, you will very soon have a great position to fill! And the name, dear boy, the name!”

    “Tobias, old Pom-Pom slapped me back-handed.” He fingered the scar, and grimaced. “That damned sapphire ring he wears did this. Would what is due to the name have permitted any other reaction on my part?”

    Poor Mr Vane had not an agile mind and this argument reduced him to silence. Lewis felt some compunction but not, it must be admitted, very much.

    “I really don’t feel like going out thees evening, dear Mrs Urqhart,” said Nan faintly.

    “They’ll talk more, if you don’t show your face, me lovey.”

    She took a deep breath. “Vairy well. I shall come.”

    “Wear that pale lilac silk. It’ll knock ’em dead. It won’t stop the cats talkin’, out o’ course, but you can bet as the gents’ll forget any ideas of you bein’ not nice to know.”

    Nan swallowed, but agreed to wear the silvery-lilac gown.

    White’s: some time after the dinner hour. Once again, Mr Bobby Amory’s elegant back might have been discerned in the midst of a huddle of eager gentlemen. His hand described an elegant parabola in the air above his head. Simultaneously he produced a long whistle, diminuendo. The huddle of gentlemen duly collapsed in roars of laughter.

    Lord and Lady Rockingham’s ball. Myriads of candles glittered; as usual the Marquis, having been given his head by his amiable little wife, had gone overboard in the matter of vases and swags of flowers, and the great ballroom of Hammond House smelled like a hothouse; phalanxes of footmen in the maroon and black Hammond livery circulated with endless trays of little nibbles; in the crush, the ice of his Lordship’s champagne was much appreciated... Sir Lionel Dewesbury, the Marquis’s uncle by marriage, had just finished imparting an extraordinarily choice story into his Lordship’s ear. The Marquis collapsed in roars of laughter.

    Henri-Louis de Bourbon was honouring the Spanish Ambassador’s ball with his presence. Orders and medals glittered, a thousand hearts, more or less, beat happily, more or less, music arose with its voluptuous swell—more or less, the viola was a trifle out of tune—and of course the iced champagne flowed.

    Le petit Monsieur’s was one of the hearts that did not beat entirely happily: these diplomatic gatherings were all the same, full of stuffed shirts. He greeted Mr Shirley Rowbotham with relief. Mr Shirley was very full of a new story and pulled His Highness aside into a hot little room to hear it.

    “Mais mon cher! I was there!” he cried.

    “No! Go on, was you? So was Wilf, of course: his theory is that Vane took deliberate aim at old Pom-Pom’s hat and wig.”

    “But of course, of course! I am convinced of it! –Stay,” he said with a naughty twinkle in his eye: “did Wilf mention the word ‘pug’, perhaps?”

    “Uh—not to me,” said Mr Shirley blankly.

    Choking, Henri-Louis imparted the rest.

    Regrettably, Mr Shirley Rowbotham let out a series of helpless yelps and fell all round the hot little room, laughing himself silly.

    The sun had set and risen again on the gay dwellings and toilers for pleasure of the Season, and it was another mild May morning.

    “Now, Pug Chalfont: stay. Stay!” Noël forced the sturdy little hindquarters to the grass. Pug looked up at him out of big, hopeful dark eyes, panting. “Sta-ay... Good dog! Good boy, Pug Chalfont! Stay.” He walked cautiously away from him.

    Pug Chalfont gambolled joyfully after him, yapping excitedly.

    “I said, shave me!” repeated Lewis irritably.

    Mr Poulter scratched his own unshaven chin dubiously. “You ain’t goin’ anywheres this morning, so don’t h’imagine as you is.”

    “I merely wish to be shaved,” he said tightly.

    Mr Poulter shook his head slowly. “Don’t think she’ll come again today, Colonel.”

    “Just SHAVE ME!” he shouted.

    Shrugging, Mr Poulter went off to get the shaving tackle.

    “Mon Prince,” said Pretty Polly de la Plante, bowing deeply.

    Henri-Louis eyed his lilac pantaloons with disfavour, but nodded politely. Possibly it was the sight of the pantaloons which inspired him then to say: “Attendez, Vicomte: devinez ce que c’est.” He whisked his hat off in an elegant parabola in the air above his head. Simultaneously he produced a long whistle, diminuendo.

    M. de la Plante gulped, failed to control himself, and went into a wheezing paroxysm, choking: “Ah, mais non! Trop cruelle, Altesse!”

    Pom-Pom and the Baron del Giglio had just encountered two point de vice young gentlemen. The two whisked their hats off very high indeed, with exaggerated flourishes. The barone started forward, very red in the face, but Pom-Pom grasped his arm and pulled him on. In their wake the two young gentlemen fell against each other, shaking ecstatically.

    Across the street Dom said numbly to Mr Sotheby: “What the Devil was that?”

    “No idea,” lied Ferdy hurriedly.

    The Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen and her sister-in-law were tonight gracing the Bedford ball. Since Adélaïde was behaving with propriety and not encouraging ineligibles, and since May was as of this moment being partnered by Lord Keywes in the quadrille, both ladies were feeling quite pleased with the progress of the evening. Amiably they agreed with M. le Vicomte de la Plante that Lady Benedict was in great looks tonight. Fanny then noted carelessly that Francis Kernohan was still as attentive as ever. At which the Vicomte, to Mrs Beresford’s mystification, gave a snigger, and murmured: “Perhaps he has not heard...”

    “Mme Beresford n’a pas entendu l’aventure récente de mon beau-frère, non plus,” said Fanny, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Mon cher Vicomte, puis-je vous prier de la raconter?”

    Nothing loath, Pretty Polly obliged. The account ended with the now customary elegant parabola in the air above the head and the simultaneous long whistle, diminuendo. Regrettably, both ladies immediately collapsed in helpless laughter.

    The Bedford ball: later the same evening. His Highness the Prince Frédéric von Maltzahn-Dressen had escaped from the glancings of rapturous glances and the luxury of looking at beauties, not to say the tedium of talking to mutes, and retreated to one of the hot little rooms being used for cards. Several hands were scattered on the tables but cards were not apparently the subject of the moment. A cluster of persons was to be observed in the middle of the room.

    “Mais non, mais non! Le chapeau et la perruque, tout d’un coup! Alors—comme ça!” cried a voice in His Highness’s preferred language.

    Pom-Pom had scarce the time to recognise the tones of his traitorous erstwhile friend M. de la Plante when all the gentlemen were observed to describe elegant parabolas in the air above their heads. Over the noise of fiddles and flutes from the ballroom loud whistles, diminuendo, were clearly discernible. Regrettably, the gentlemen then collapsed in roars of laughter; the ladies, even more regrettably, let out ecstatic shrieks.

    Pom-Pom turned bright puce and retreated, shaking with impotent fury.

    Another mild May morning. Nursemaids with their charges were observed in the Park, birds twittered in the trees, a scattering of the more energetic were glimpsed on horseback...

    “I shall teach him ‘Stay’ this morning or perish in the attempt,” said Sir Noël through his teeth.

    Cherry bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Here, Pug Chalfont. HERE!” Pug gambolled up. “Now: stay. Stay...”

    The sun had risen higher, in the Park the first relay of nursemaids had been replaced by a second, Sir Noël and Miss Chalfont had tottered off in a state of near-exhaustion for a well-earned breakfast and, though it was not the hour of the promenade, a few fashionables were taking the air. Mr Rowbotham, a good-natured brother, was tooling his elegant phaeton in the company of his younger sister, Diane, when a young gentleman approached.

    “I say, Wilf: wuff-wuff!” he cried.

    This was odd enough: but then immediately, to Diane’s astonishment, her brother turned very red, whipped up his pair and drove off without a word.

    “Wilf—”

    “Kindly refrain, Diane,” said her good-natured brother through his teeth.

    “Blimey, Colonel, you was shaved only yesterday!”

    “Nevertheless I wish to be shaved,” he said tightly.

    Mr Poulter shook his head slowly. “She never come yesterday, so what makes you think as ’ow—”

    “Just SHAVE ME!” he shouted.

    Resignedly Mr Poulter fetched the shaving tackle.

    So many posies had been delivered this morning that Dom piled them on a giant silver tray normally seen gracing Mr Urqhart’s dinner table.

    Cherry, Sir Noël and Pug were sitting limply on the window-seat, still exhausted, even after their sustaining breakfasts. “Help,” she said numbly.

    “This goes on every morning, does it?” asked Sir Noël courteously.

    “Aye,” said Dom, winking.

    The baronet collapsed in sniggers.

    After the stresses of the Bedford ball the previous evening, not to say the Rockingham ball the evening before, Mrs Urqhart was only just up. She was frankly in a wrapper, with a warm shawl over it, and frankly laid on the sofa, yawning. And eating her way through a dish of Bapsee’s goolab jamoons, the which she had already explained to the company she knew she didn’t ought. “’Oo they from, then?”

    At Daphne’s urging Dom chose the lovely yellow posy first. “Thees purports to be an apology to Nan from old Pom-Pom,” he discovered sourly.

    “For the brooch?” said the innocent Tarry.

    “Aye, must be. Well, at least the silly old theeng has realized the ineligibility of the damned gift,” Dom allowed, scowling.

    Noël edged closer to Cherry on the window seat and breathed in her ear: “My God, don’t he know?”

    Cherry shook her head, biting her lip, her eyes on Dom’s face.

    Sir Noël cleared his throat. “Aye, that will be it, Baldaya. An apology in form. Er—try the very pink one, old chap.”

    The very pink one—from Papelardouche for Nan—had more success, in especial as Dom promptly reminded the company of Panardouche’s recent offering for Nan. The lovely blue and white bouquet with the darker blue ribands was for Nan from Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham, thanking her for a most delightful pair of dances last night. “Naval touch!” approved Dom. The tight posy of white blooms with the silver ribands was for Nan from His Grace the Duke of Wellington, thanking her for a most delightful pair of dances last night. This one produced a stunned silence.

    “Er—supportive,” murmured Noël.

    Mrs Urqhart gave him a warning glance. “Aye.”

    The next posy was early tea roses. Dom choked.

    Mr Charleson leapt to his side. “What a conquest!” he gasped, falling all round the room.

    Susan got up to look at the lovely posy. “A Mr Vane,” she said in a puzzled voice. She turned the card over. “He has written ‘Pray be assured of my respectful esteem.’ That is very nice. But who is he?”

    “Susan, he’s the fat man who can talk of nothing but receets!” cried Daphne, giggling.

    Weakly Mrs Urqhart ordered Dom to continue.

    The sheaf of bearded irises—it was scarcely a posy—was for Nan from Admiral Dauntry, thanking her for a most delightful dance last night. Dom laid it reverently on an occasional table. He stepped back. He clicked his heels. He saluted smartly. The company collapsed in giggles. He then proceeded to sort out the remaining military and naval ones. A neat posy of mixed blooms came with General Sir Francis Kernohan’s kindest regards. Major Cecil Jerningham’s best compliments were attached to a yellow and white posy with scarlet ribands—very military. Dom and Eric duly saluted it. Captain Lord Vyvyan Gratton-Gordon had sent pale blue love-in-a-mist with silver gauze ribands, so poetic that Daphne fell into a green jealousy immediately. Pink and white mixed blooms had attached the card of a Colonel Sir Gerald Knighton. “Never ’eard of ’im,” said Mrs Urqhart on a weak note. Smoothly Sir Noël explained he was a friend of Kernohan’s—and of His Grace of Wellington’s. Major Frederick Kenton had sent mixed blooms with green ribbons. Lieutenant-Commander Peter Haydock had indulged himself in white hothouse blooms. Pink ribands. Kindest regards. Major-General Sir Percy Wayneflete’s offering was all yellow shades with both yellow and bronze ribands: delightful. Lieutenant David Lacey had found pink carnations; undoubtedly hothouse. Assurances of his undying devotion. Feldmarschall Franz-Erich von Blumenthal’s posy was merely accompanied by his Devoted Compliments. The card was good, though: German black letter.

    “There’s one more military, and one naval,” Dom explained. Solemnly he read out: “‘Dear Lady Benedict, Pray be assured of the deep and continuing regard of your humble servant, Bartholomew Hartlepool.’”

    “Eh? That is not a naval or military!” cried the old lady.

    Grinning, he explained: “General Hartlepool to us mere civilians, ma’am. Close friend of the Duke’s. Now, listen to thees:

‘No words can express nor pen outline.

Admiration wholehearted that provokes me to send,

Naught but a trifle from your Devoted Friend,

    ‘Capt. Charles Quarmby-Vine. R.N.’”

    “N—A—N,” ascertained Daphne enviously. “Is it not clever? How I wish a gentleman would send me a real poem!”

    Colonel Vane, his chin very smooth and shiny, was dozing after a breakfast of white rolls supplied fresh from Mr Dearden’s by Mrs Catt from the third floor of Number 16, quince preserve courtesy of her neighbour Mr Beamish, sent up from the country by his sister and saved for a special occasion, and fresh cheese from the hand of Mr Grooby’s Ma, who kept nanny goats, Mr Grooby having travelled at the cessation of his employment last evening all the way to Windsor and back, largely on carts, in order to fetch it in the case the Colonel might fancy it. The coffee had come from one of Lady Benedict’s baskets.

    “Colonel, sir, you got a visitor!” said a hoarse voice in his ear.

    The Colonel opened his eyes with a start. “What the— Good gad, I was dreaming we were bivouacked in the Peninsula, Poulter! Must have been that goat’s cheese.”

    “Aye, it were goaty, right enough,” acknowledged Mr Poulter, putting his hand on his own muscular middle. “You got a visitor. Not ’er!” he added irritably as his master struggled to sit up.

    Colonel Vane went very red but merely said, heaving himself up with the aid of his good arm: “Well, who is this visitor?”

    “Dunno. Didn’t give no name. ’‘E don’t look like much. Grim-faced feller. ’E’s a gent, though: bruisin’ four-in-’and like what you never saw!”

    “Four-in— Is it Noël Amory?”

    “Nah, the Capting ain’t got a face on ’im like four-day milk!”

    Colonel Vane swallowed a smile. “You had best show him up, Poulter.

    Mr Poulter duly showed him up, announcing him with a gracious: “’Ere ‘e is.”

    Colonel Vane by this time had decided it must be the saturnine Aden Tarlington, who was known for driving a four-in-hand and had been a member of the F.H.C. until its recent disbandment.

    But it was not. It was another former member entirely of the F.H.C. who was Poulter’s grim-faced feller with the face like four-day milk. “Hullo, Vane. Damned sorry to hear you’re laid up.”

    “Good morning, Lord Rockingham,” he said weakly.

    They sat on several charitable committees together and had many political interests in common. But though Colonel Vane had once or twice attended large parties at Hammond House, he was very far from being one of the Marquis’s intimates: indeed, the gap between their circumstances was so wide that Lewis would never have presumed on the acquaintance. He was unaware that Lord Rockingham, who was by no means the bluff, hearty character he presented to the world, was fully aware of this and liked him all the more for it.

    “Tell me you didn’t blow old Pom-Pom’s hat and wig off deliberate, and I’ll go away immediate,” the burly Marquis grinned.

    “No, of course I did,” said Lewis dazedly.

    Rockingham gave a shout of laughter and came over to the bed. He was holding a great sheaf of flowers. “Her La’ship browbeat me into bringin’ these,” he said with his wolf-like grin.

    “Thank you, sir. Please thank Lady Rockingham for me.”

    “I shall. She’d have come herself, y’know: had to stop her forcibly. Couldn’t make her see that when a fellow’s laid up with a scratch or two he don’t relish bein’ fussed over by a pack of damned women,” said the Marquis easily, pulling up a chair.

    Lewis Vane had a suspicion that it was, rather, that Lord Rockingham had not wished to embarrass him by introducing the pretty young Marchioness to his extremely humble abode. He swallowed, and smiled weakly.

    “Y’don’t look too bad, Vane.”

    “No, I am not too bad. And would not be abed but for the fact that my man has hidden all my clothes,” he admitted grimly.

    The Marquis shook all over for some time.

    Poulter reappeared, looking cautious. “Everyfink all right, Colonel, sir?”

    “Yes, you fool: does this gentleman look like a dun?”

    “Don’t answer that!” gasped his Lordship, going into a wheezing paroxysm.

    Lewis’s mouth twitched but all he said was: “And a dun would scarcely drive a four-in-hand. Make us some coffee, Poulter, for the Lord’s sake.”

    Lord Rockingham watched interestedly as Poulter made the coffee over the fire, not attempting to make conversation. Lewis also remained mum: he couldn’t think of a damned thing to say that would not sound either fulsome or feeble. Or both.

    “No good at sick-visits,” said his Lordship over the coffee. “Could tell you about the last few evenings at the House? –Missed one, me wife had a damned ball.”

    Lewis swallowed a smile. “Yes; please do tell me about the House, sir.”

    Thankfully Lord Rockingham plunged into politics.

    “So ’oo is ’e?” asked Poulter some half hour later.

    “Uh—you won’t believe me. We—uh—we have political interests in common.”

    “Dare say, but ’oo is ’e?!”

    “Look, for God’s sake, don’t go bruiting it around the neighbourhood, I don’t wish to be stared at for a raree.”

    Poulter gave him an offended look.

    “He’s the Marquis of Rockingham,” said Lewis limply.

    He sniffed. “Right. Well, now tell me this, Colonel: ’ow am I gonna h’explain away the four-in-’and?”

    “I suppose even Lumb Street may be visited by a four-in-hand,” said Lewis limply.

    “Ho, yus!” he said with awful sarcasm.

    At about this point it dawned. “Poulter,” he croaked, “was it his greys?”

    Poulter nodded. “H’inconspicker-rous, yer might say,” he noted with relish.

    Lewis had to swallow.

    “So, whadd’e want?”

    “My good fool, he came to pay me a sick-visit: what the Devil do you suppose he wanted?” he shouted.

    “Dunno. Never came afore.”

    Lewis sighed. “I have never before been laid up with a hole in my arm.”

    “You was talking to ’im for long enough,” he noted suspiciously.

    “If you must know—though what good it will do you I am at a loss to tell—we were talking politics.”

    This apparently satisfied him. That, or the sniff indicated his opinion of the topic was pretty much the general one.

    Dom had just finished off the civilian offerings for Nan—all pretty expectable—when the door opened and William entered with another posy on a salver. This one was for Tarry: very delicate, hearts-ease with little ferns. Miss Kernohan received it with blushes and a tremulous smile, and suddenly ran out of the room with it.

    “We collect Miss Tarry has a favoured admirer,” murmured Sir Noël.

    “Aye,” agreed his Aunt Betsy. “Don’t think you know him. We met ’im when we was last down at The Towers. A reverend gent: Llewellyn-Jones. Very well thought of in Church circles, he is.”

    “We all liked him very much, Sir Noël,” said Mrs Stewart.

    “That sounds promising,” he replied nicely.

    “Aye. Only Miss Tarry, she can’t believe as yet that she has been and gorn and fallen for a feller with a face like a boot,” explained Mrs Urqhart elegantly.

    “Looks are not everything,” said Cherry firmly.

    “Right. Well, look at Pug!” said Dom with a chuckle.

    Fortunately for Sir Noël, the subsequent outcry hid his coughing fit successfully from all but his sapient Aunt Betsy.

     Later that same day Mr Shirley Rowbotham was discovered in his usual haunt, to wit, Boodle’s.

    “Old Fioravanti has promised to demonstrate his famous passa straordinaria: thought y’might like to join us,” said Dom.

    “Ah—thing is, Baldaya, ’nother engagement!” he gasped.

    “Thought you was keen to see the passa?” said Mr Sotheby.

    “I am, dear boy, but I’m promised to Wilf and Aden Tarlington!” he gasped, with a desperate look over his shoulder at the corner where his brother was absorbed with a paper and a glass. The glass was empty: the paper was being folded up neatly, with great concentration, to form a small yard or pen wherein to contain it. It was evident to all present that this was not Mr Rowbotham’s first glass of the day.

    That worthy then wandered over to them, looking vague. “Don’t know why I said I would go: scarcely know the fellow.”

    Mr Shirley was very red: he did not look at Dom and Ferdy. “You said you would go, because it was all your fault!”

    “It was not all my fault, and so I keep tellin’ you fellows! Oh: afternoon, Baldaya—Sotheby.”

    “Hullo, Wilf,” they replied, grinning.

    “And if anybody says ‘wuff-wuff’ or anythin’ like it,” added Mr Rowbotham in vengeful tones, “I’ll be doin’ some callin’ out of me own!”

    “Look, just shut it, dear fellow!” gasped Mr Shirley, taking his arm.

    Dom was opening his mouth to say: “I say, do tell,” when Mr Tarlington swept in, complete with many-caped driving-coat with a couple of spare whiplashes stuck through the buttonhole. “We ready? Oh—afternoon, Sotheby, Baldaya. You lads coming with us?” he said on a cautious note.

    “No!” said Mr Rowbotham crossly. “Ain’t it damned embarrassin’ enough without that, Aden?”

    There was a sticky silence.

    “I theenk someone had best explain,” said Dom grimly, as he perceived that not only was Mr Shirley red and horrified-looking, so also was his friend Ferdy.

    “Yes,” said Mr Tarlington with a sigh. “Come and sit down a moment, Baldaya, if you would. –Shirley, take that out to my curricle and keep an eye on it.”

    “Aye, aye, Major, sir!” said Mr Shirley, grinning, and saluting. “Hoy, Wilf: this way!”

    Mr Tarlington did not make the mistake of showing any overt sympathy in the middle of Boodle’s small salon to a young man whom he did not know very well, but who, it was plain to see, was of an excitable and nervous temperament. Once they were seated he told Dom the whole in the simplest terms, ending: “I’m afraid there were some spectators: dashed Wilf included.”

    “Thing is,” said Mr Sotheby with a strangled cough, “appears Vane would not have been hit at all—well, Pom-Pom couldn’t hit a barn wall—if the pug dog hadn’t hurled itself at him at the crucial moment.”

    “You—you do not mean Miss Chalfont’s pug?” croaked Dom.

    “Aye.”

    Mr Tarlington got up. “Damned Wilf opened the door of the carriage, and let it loose. –I think you would not wish to accompany us to see Vane today, mm? But I can furnish you with his address, should you wish to call.”

    “Yuh-yes! Thank you, sir!” gasped Dom, stumbling to his feet.

    “Cool hand, ain’t he?” said Mr Sotheby numbly as the door closed after him.

    “Ferdy, for God’s sake, eef you knew of thees, why deed you not tell me?”

    “Didn’t know beforehand, dear boy!” he said quickly. “No-one did! Um—well, story goin’ round, did not quite like to...”

    “No.” Dom thought it over. Finally he said painfully: “Why een God’s name deed Colonel Sour-P— Colonel Vane take eet upon himself to—to take up Nan’s cause?”

    “No idea. He’s mad, of course.”

    “Oh?”

    Obligingly Mr Sotheby told him Colonel Vane’s history.

    “Good gad. Oh! No wonder Uncle Érico—”

    “Mm?”

    “Oh—we was een the Park, saw Vane, and Uncle Érico damn’ nearly cut heem. Well, ain’t eet evident?” he said crossly as Mr Sotheby’s brow wrinkled. “He must be een damned bad odour at the Embassy!”

    “Eh? Oh! Oh, absolutely, mm.”

    There was a short silence.

    “I wish I had seen it,” said Mr Sotheby wistfully.

    Dom went very red. “Vane nigh to getting heemself killed over a stupeed and eenappropriate gift  from that seelly old man? So do not I!”

    “No, no, dear boy! Pom-Pom! The hat and wig!”

    “Eh?”

    Grinning broadly, Mr Sotheby described it. Dom was so upset he couldn’t even smile.

    Mr Amory had called—with another posy—to invite Mrs Stewart for a drive in the Park. Mrs Urqhart refrained from comment, merely raising her eyebrows, until Mrs Stewart, very pink-cheeked, had hurried upstairs for her bonnet and shawl.

    Then she said: “Two posies in less than a week is too much. Not to mention drives in the Park in a phaeton with a fine town beau.”

    The elegant Mr Amory reddened. “Dash it, Betsy! She’s a very pleasant woman! And it’s just a harmless drive!”

    “It may be to you. But just bear in mind she’s been buried alive up in Scotland for over ten years: first with that stick of a husband and then as a widder with her old ma-in-law to look to, and then this last two year, all on ’er lonesome. Without no Pinks in fancy caped coats to set her poor little heart in a flutter!”

    “For the Lord’s sake! One drive!”

    Mrs Urqhart was silent for a moment, wondering if she had, far from encouraging him to think of Mrs Stewart as a possible helpmate, not to say as a human being with feelings as tender as his own, scared him off. Then she said: “There is a Mr McWhirter in the offing, did you know? Old friend of her late ma-in-law’s.”

    “You mean he is an older generation?” he said weakly.

    Mrs Urqhart nodded. “Seventy if ’e be a day. Thinks if he can latch onto her, he’ll have a nurse for ’is declinin’ years.”

    “That is outrageous!”

    “Outrageous or not, it’s the way of the world.”

    “The poor little— Seventy?”

    She shrugged.

    Once he had bowed the still very pink-cheeked Mrs Stewart out to the carriage, Mrs Urqhart leant back limply on her sofa. “McWhirter?” she muttered to herself. “Oh, Gawd. You is a-slippin, Betsy Urqhart! Even Macdonald, or Campbell! But no: you has to go and invent a McWhirter!”

    “There’s some gents,” announced Mr Poulter, peering from the window.

    The Colonel was reading; he laid down his book with a sigh. “Oh?”

    “’Nother four-in-’and. Bays, since yer don’t ask.”

    “I think that must be Aden Tarlington’s new rig-out.’

    “What? The Major?” Mr Poulter exited at the double.

    The gents—Colonel Vane was quite sure it was due to Mr Tarlington’s presence—were announced as follows:

    “Colonel Vane, sir: Major Tarlington, sir! Mr Rowbotham, Mr Shirley. Sir!”

    “Don’t salute, Corporal,” said Mr Tarlington drily. “How are you, Colonel?”

    “I’d be a damn’ sight better if Corporal Poulter hadn’t hidden my clothes.”

    Grinning, Mr Tarlington returned: “Right wing, I see. Won’t offer to shake hands, then. You know Wilf, I believe? This here’s Shirley, his brother, don’t think you’ve met. Brought him along to keep an eye on Wilf.”

    “I have merely had a brandy. Or possibly two,” said Mr Rowbotham severely. “Delighted to see you, Colonel. Trust you will accept my very humble apologies and sincere wishes for a speedy recovery.” He gave a deep bow.

    ‘That’s a good fellow: now, go and sit quietly in a corner,” said Mr Tarlington. “Sorry about this, sir: he declared he would do it, you see, but the nervin’ up to do it required a quantity of Dutch courage.’

    “Brandy! Nothin’ Dutch about it!” said Mr Rowbotham crossly.

    “Dutch or not, I accept your apologies, Rowbotham,” said the Colonel without emotion.

    “Do you?” he said in astonishment. “Well, don’t mind tellin’ you, dashed glad to hear it!” He looked round, chose a small stool, and sat down on it with a loud sigh.

    Corporal Poulter duly escorted the visitors downstairs at the conclusion of this sick-visit, but returned with a very cautious look on his face. “The Major brung a few oddments.”

    Colonel Vane sighed. “Go on.”

    “Well, h’appears ’e’s married, now.”

    “I know: I have met her briefly: a pretty, intelligent young woman. –Do not tell me that don’t make a difference, I know it.”

    “Um—jellies and that. That’ll be ’er doin’. There’s a bottle of rum, though!”

    “Well, put it in the cupboard. And pray spend some time this afternoon—” He glanced at the clock: “—evening, rather, in sorting out which of all these gifts we’ve received lately are perishable.”

    “They brung ’em for you, yer know,” said his henchman.

    “I am not an army, however. Perhaps we could offer our kind friends at Number 16 a supper: what do you think?”

    “I think as ’ow you’re lookin’ pulled, and you needn’t tell me it ain’t been throbbin’, ’cos I know it ’as! –Termorrer,” he allowed grudgingly. “If you’re feelink up to it.”

    The Colonel sighed, but did not attempt to argue with him.

    White’s: some time after the dinner hour. His Highness the Prince Frédéric von Maltzahn-Dressen, disillusioned with the frivolous atmosphere currently prevailing at Boodle’s, had decided to favour the staider club this evening. The Barone and the Herr Major had accompanied him with certain reservations which they had not dared to express to their patron. In the smaller card room a huddle of older gentlemen was discovered. As they came in one gentleman’s hand described an elegant parabola in the air above his head and the entire group of gentlemen immediately produced long whistles, diminuendo, forthwith collapsing in roars of laughter.

    “Cousin,” said Pom-Pom between his teeth in his native language, turning an alarming shade of puce, “you will write out my resignation from this place tomorrow morning. It has become entirely ramshackle!”

    Major Gneissen-Maltzahn did not attempt to point out that White’s was the most respectable gentlemen’s club in London, any more than he attempted to point out that his own rôle had not hitherto been that of secretary to his cousin. Pom-Pom’s expression alone would have been enough to warn him: but the fact that the Fürst had lapsed into German—!

    “You may shave me, for clothes or not, I intend getting up today!” said Colonel Vane very loudly indeed.

    Mr Poulter sniffed. “You was tossin’ and turnin’ last night.”

    “There is almost no heat in the arm. Shave me and bring me my clothes,” he said tightly.

    Mr Poulter shook his head slowly. “Colonel, sir, it’s been four days since you was winged: she sent the footman feller to see ’ow you was goink on t’other day; don’t think she’ll come again ’erself, lessen you gets worse.”

    “SHAVE ME AND BRING ME MY CLOTHES!” he shouted.

    Mr Poulter rubbed his chin. “’Ow would this be: I shaves yer honour and yer honour gets dressed, only not in yer boots.”

    “Poulter, I am rotting away here for lack of fresh air and exercise. Do as you are told if you wish to remain in my employ,” he said coldly.

    Mr Poulter turned a strange sort of puce shade. “Very good, sir.”

    Colonel Vane sighed, but did not apologize. At least Poulter could still recognize a line once he had well and truly overstepped it.

    He was dressed and sitting at his small table eating his breakfast when Mr Poulter reappeared. “There’s a feller downstairs to see you. Got a forring name. Looks like a Portygee or a ruddy Spaniard to me, Colonel, sir.”

    “Show him up.”

    Mr Poulter looked dubious, but nodded, and disappeared.

    After some time there was a tap on the door.

    “Come IN!” shouted the Colonel irritably.

    The door opened and Mr Baldaya came in, looking cautious. Very clearly Mr Poulter had not seen fit to show him up but, rather, had ordered him up. “Good morning, Colonel Vane.”

    “Good morning, Mr Baldaya. I apologize for my man,” said Colonel Vane grimly.

    “Don’t mention eet, sir. Old family servant, ees he, sometheeng of that sort?”

    “Something of that sort, yes. He was a corporal in my regiment in the Peninsula and on the score of my having dragged him off a battlefield with a piece of shrapnel in him, has appointed himself to my eternal service.”

    Dom grinned. “Know precisely what you mean, sir! We has a houseful of ’em, at home! Devoted, of course, but drive you mad, don’t they?”

    “Poulter certainly drives me mad, aye. Come along in and sit down. May I offer you some coffee?”

    Dom sat down opposite him looking cautious. “Well, yes; thanks vairy much, sir.”

    The Colonel got up, fetched another cup and poured coffee for him silently.

    “I came to see how you are, sir. Glad to see you on your feet.”

    “Thank you. I am very well, the arm is nothing. How is Pom-Pom?”

    Dom’s eyes gleamed. “He’s rabid, sir! They ees talkin’ about how you blew hees hat and wig off all over London, and eef eet ain’t fellows comin’ up to heem and bowing, and raising their hats like thees,”—he made the gesture above his head—“eet’s fellows what he walks een upon when they ees doin’ thees!” He made the gesture, and gave the whistle, diminuendo. “Heard only last night that he has threatened to resign from White’s: caught a bunch of fellows at eet!”

    “Good. Let’s hope it gives him a distaste for London and he clears off back to the Continent.”

    “Oh, absolutely, sir!”

    The Colonel drank coffee, looking amused. Dom’s grin faded. He buried his nose in his cup.

    “How is your sister?” said the Colonel evenly.

    He made a face. “Well— On the surface she seems merry and bright, y’know? Only she’s overdoin’ eet. Not herself, y’know?”

    Colonel Vane was rather glad to hear it. “Mm.”

    “Mind you, people have been vairy decent to her!” he said quickly.

    “So her part in it is known?” said the Colonel, frowning.

    “Well, yes.” Dom looked at him nervously.

    Lewis made a horrible face. “I should never have— I think I owe you a double apology, Baldaya. I should never have let the damned thing start. I had no intention of it, but I lost my temper with Pom-Pom; and then when I saw that damned crowd of idiots, I should have stopped it on the ground.”

    “Well, dare say I should have done the same as you, sir. They’re sayin’ een the clubs as old Pom-Pom slapped you,” he noted cautiously.

    The Colonel nodded.

    “There you are, then,” said Dom.

    “Er—well, no, in this day and age it is scarcely that simple.”

    “I can see that well enough, sir. But I can also see that eef you hadn’t met heem, Pom-Pom would have spread eet all over town as you was afraid to. And eet wouldn’t have stopped people talking about Nan, not once you had returned the dashed brooch.”

    “No. I am afraid that was your prerogative, Mr Baldaya. I apologize.”

    “No need for that, sir,” said Dom uneasily.

    “On the contrary, I think there is every need. And—er—perhaps you will also convey to your sister my profound apologies that I stirred up such a damned hornet’s nest?”

    “Wasn’t you, eet was Wilf and Henri-Louis and them. Only I shall, sir. Thank you.”

    “And pray tell her, that I am very well and that grateful though I was for her very generous concern, there is no need for her to come here again.”

    “What?” he gasped.

    “Hell,” said Colonel Vane, biting his lip. “My dear boy, don’t look like that! She called with a basketful of invalid comforts, it was entirely harmless. I had no idea you didn’t know; in fact— Well, how the Devil did you get my direction, if not from her?”

    “Off Mr Tarlington. He was vairy decent about eet all. Nan don’t have a notion I’m here. Dare say she won’t thank me, neither.”

    “Mm. You are a little younger than she, is that right?”

    “Aye. And she don’t mind me, you need not say eet. But the theeng ees,” he burst out, “she don’t mind nobody, really, and never has! What I mean ees, when Hugo was alive, you would have said she minded heem, all right and tight, but most of the time there wasn’t nothing she weeshed to have her own way over. Only when she deed—” He related the incidents of the ridge-pole and driving down St James’s.

    The Colonel did not smile. “I see.”

    “Mind you, he put her over hees knee. But that was the exception. Half the time she wound heem round her leetle finger, just the same as she deed John.”

    “John?”

    “That was her first husband, sir. Leetle Johnny’s Papa. Oh, I don’t suppose you—”

    “Yes, I have met the children. Tell me about John, if you would.”

    “He was a vairy decent chap, sir. Our father’s business partner. Brought us up, really, after Mamma ran off and Papa vanished. Theeng ees, he was more than old enough to be Nan’s father, and when she married heem— Well, she deedn’t ask my advice, her and Prema hatched eet up between them.”—The Colonel merely nodded, not asking.—“But I theenk eet was largely to stop the gossip, sir, acos she was sixteen by then and the cats was sayin’ she shouldn’t be living een his house. Not that she wasn’t vairy fond of heem, we all were. Theeng ees, she only had to smile at heem and he gave her anytheeng she asked for.”

    “Mm. And the second husband was also older, is that right?”

    “Aye. Tairribly decent chap. We all thought the world of heem,” said Dom heavily.

    Colonel Vane looked at him with considerable sympathy, which he did not allow to show. “In that case I should say you have very little hope of controlling her, Mr Baldaya, even if she should reveal to you what the Devil she’s up to.”

    Dom nodded hard, looking at him gratefully. “Aye, that’s just eet, sir! Gets up to all thees stuff behind our backs!”

    “What else has she been up to, if I may ask?” he said, refreshing the coffee cups.

    Mrs Urqhart had long since poured out the story of the adventure at Mr Fishe’s house to Dom—omitting the precise details of the encounter with Whittikins but making it clear enough that there had been a pretty boy in the case and that Nan had been led into behaving unladylike. Dom promptly revealed everything he knew to the hard-faced Colonel Vane, without even so much as a mental glance in the direction of why he was doing so.

    “Mm... Does Kernohan know of this?”

    “Lord, no, sir! He’d be shocked out of hees seven weets! No, Mrs Urqhart ain’t breathed a word, and you can bet your boots Nan won’t have: the poor old fellow theenks she’s some kind of an angel or sometheeng! Well, they all do. –She don’t actually mean to lead ’em on,” he explained awkwardly.

    The Colonel gave a little smile. “No, she don’t have to. They hold out their noses with the ring already in place, asking to be led by it, if I mistake not.”

    “Aye!” he said, laughing. “That’s precisely eet, sir!”

    “Yes.” He stared into space.

    After a moment Dom said anxiously: “Sir, you won’t hold eet against her, weell you?”

    “Do I look the sort of damned gudgeon that Francis Kernohan is?”

    “No,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

    “No. I’m not Dauntry or Jerningham, either. Nor Arthur Wellesley,” he added drily.

    Dom gulped. “Here, I say, sir: ain’t that tantamount to lèse majesté, weetheen these shores?”

    Colonel Vane eyed him drily.

    Immediately Mr Baldaya went into a terrific sniggering fit. “Should have seen—Hees Grace—the night of the—Bedford—ball!” he choked. “All over her! Next day he sends her a posy, what’s more!”

    The Colonel’s eyebrows rose. “A compliment, indeed.”

    “Yes. And I say, sir, do you know a poetic fellow called Quarmby-Vine?”

    “I know a Charles Quarmby-Vine slightly,” he said temperately. “A burly naval fellow, around my age?”

    “Aye: that’s heem! Poetic fellow!” he choked. “He had a pair of dances weeth her that night, too: so he sends her a posy weeth a poem attached!”

    “Go on,” urged the Colonel, his mouth twitching.

    Winking, Dom recited, with some emphasis on the initial words of each line:

“‘No words can express nor pen outline.

Admiration wholehearted that provokes me to send,

Naught but a trifle from Yr. Devoted Friend,

    ‘Capt. Charles Quarmby-Vine, R.N.’”

    Regrettably, Colonel Vane went into a prolonged spluttering fit.

    “There’s a note come,” reported Mr Poulter later the same day.

     “What now?” he sighed.

    “H’only from Mr Green!” retorted Mr Poulter indignantly.

    Silently Colonel Vane held out his hand for it.

    “Mr Saver, ’e says if yer tailor duns you, order another coat orf ’im h’immediate.”

    “M. Savour is an IMBECILE!” he shouted.

    Scowling, Mr Poulter gave him the note.

    Colonel Vane opened it. His jaw sagged.

    “Is ’e?”

    “No. He sends his compliments, thanks me for settling his account, and invites me to honour his humble abode for supper as soon as I’m feeling— Who paid him?” he said terribly.

    “Sir, I swear to Gawd, I ain’t got no notion!” cried Mr Poulter on an anguished note.

    “Did you mention he was my tailor to Mr Baldaya?” he said through his teeth.

    “’Er brother? Nah, why’d I wanna do a daft thing like that? Nor I never said nuffink to ’er, neither,” he said virtuously. “Value me life more’n that!”

    After a moment’s thought the Colonel got up, looking grim. “I shall pay a call on Miss McInnery.”

    Wincing, Mr Poulter nodded palely.

    It was some time before Colonel Vane descended from Miss McInnery’s apartment. Mr Poulter looked at him nervously but did not dare to speak.

    “She did not breathe a word to Lady Benedict,” he admitted.

    Mr Poulter sagged. “Thank Gawd,” he muttered, wiping his brow. “Well, ’oo?”

    The Colonel bit his lip. “Tobias.”

    “Sir, I never so much as mentioned the word ‘tailor’! Nor dun, nor nuffink!”

    “No, he—he encountered Miss McInnery on the stairs... I shall have to write him,” he said, biting his lip.

    “Aye. Well, he’ll of done it out of respeck for the family name.”

    “Yes.”

    There was a short pause. The Colonel went over to the window and stared out, drumming his fingers aimlessly on the pane. “What did you think of young Baldaya?” he said at last.

    “Well, I dunno, sir. Bit weak? ’Course, took guts to come rahnd ’ere.”

    “Mm.”

    “Needs to grow up. Might turn out all right h’if so be ’e ’as the right sort of guiding ’and. Well, you an’ me and the Major, we’d sort ’im out, if we ’ad ’im in the regiment!”

    “None of us is any longer in the regiment,” he said heavily.

    “Nossir.” Mr Poulter looked at him respectfully.

    “Trot along,” he said with a sigh.

    Touching his forelock, Mr Poulter vanished.

    The Colonel looked unseeingly into the grimy precincts of Lumb Street. Poulter was very acute, and his observations had but confirmed his own. Whoever took on Lady Benedict, it was fairly clear, would also be taking on the brother.

    —Two middle-aged husbands? Christ, the poor girl! But no wonder she assumed middle-aged men were as putty in her hands!  After quite some time he went over to the fireplace and looked at himself in the greenish mirror that adorned the mantelpiece. He, too, was old enough to be her father. Was that one count for him or against him?

    “So now I suppose you are the best of friends?” concluded Nan crossly, very red, at the end of her brother’s report. Colonel Vane had come out of it extremely well, to say the least. Dom seemed to think he was some sort of hero, just because he had shot off a silly pistol! The notion that he had unnecessarily put his own life at risk, on a mere whim, did not seem to have occurred, at all. On the contrary: the fact that he had been wounded seemed to make him even more of a hero in the silly boy’s eyes!

    Dom eyed her cautiously. “Colonel Vane ees a vairy decent fellow.”

    She glared. “Pooh! He ees an obsteenate, ugly, mannerless peeg! And I never asked heem to interfere in my business, and eef he got shot for eet, eet ees hees OWN STUPEED FAULT! And I weell thank you to refrain from making a friend of heem. I do not weesh to have hees company eenflicted on me!”

    “If that ain’t just you all over, Nan! You meet a fellow what’s worth ten of any fellow you has met since Hugo, and instead of goin’ down on your bended knees to heem for defending your reputation, you look down your damned nose acos he ees not pretty enough for you!”

    “That ees NOT TRUE!” she screamed.

    “Oh, ain’t eet, just?” he said awfully, turning on his heel.

    Possibly if Dom had not shown himself so partisan in regard to Colonel Vane, Nan would not have found it necessary to attack him. Dom was so cross with her, however, that this thought did not occur to him.

    The sun had set and risen yet again on the gay dwellings and toilers for pleasure of the Season, and it was yet another mild May morning.

    “I think he has improved,” said Cherry timidly.

    “Mm. Possibly. –No, Pug Chalfont: stay. Stay!” Noël forced the sturdy little hindquarters to the grass. Pug looked up at him out of big, hopeful dark eyes, panting. “Sta-ay... Good dog! Good boy, Pug Chalfont! Now: stay.” He walked cautiously away from him.

    Pug Chalfont gambolled joyfully after him, yapping excitedly...