Sally was herself again.
“Don’t mention it,” she said.” You might just as well apologize for having rheumatism.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t your fault. The thing was purely pathological. But I shall have to cure you…. I’ll write you a little prescription.”
Bill started.
“For God’s sake!”
Sally went to the desk, and took up a pencil.
“Kalii bromati,” he heard her murmur.” Natrii bromatii…. Grammata quinque….“ She got up. “Here you are,” she said amiably. “One powder three times a day after meals. Any druggist will make that up for you.”
“You’re very kind.”
“In addition there will be hygienic regulation of your mode of living. Avoid excitement and mental strain.”
“Thanks!” said Bill. “That’s a great help.”
“Take plenty of fresh air, do physical jerks every morning, and eat plenty of vegetables. Good night!”
She stroked his face softly, and he quivered. He looked up amazed.
“Sally!”
“What’s the matter?”
“You stroked my face!”
“Yes.”
“Gently.”
“Yes.”
“Almost—lovingly.”
“Yes.”
Bill blinked.
“Then—”
“Oh, don’t jump to conclusions,” said Sally. “The gesture was purely automatic. We doctors often stroke our patients’ faces when they have passed the crisis.”
“Oh! So you think I have passed the crisis?“
“I think so. You see, you had the sense to call in a good doctor. Good night.”
She walked composedly up the stairs. And, as she did so, the door of Lottie’s room opened, and its occupant came yawning into view.
“Squiffy!” called Lottie, who, thinking things over in bed, had decided that what was needed to induce sleep was another of her erstwhile mate’s scientifically blended glassfuls.
Her eye fell on Bill, gaping below, and she gave tongue cheerily.
“Hullo, Bill!”
She perceived Sally.
“Hul-lo!” she said.
Sally said nothing. She walked into her room; and Bill, standing as in a trance, heard the key click in the lock.
Bill came to life. Dashing past Lottie, he rushed at the door. He shook the handle.
“Sally!” he cried. “Sally!”
There was no answer.
CHAPTER XIII
SIR HUGO DRAKE had passed a restful night, undisturbed by dreams of foozled mashie-shots. Morning found him sleeping like the little child of Lord Tidmouth’s description. Waking as the sun crept over his pillow, he yawned, sat up, and perceived that another day, with all its possibilities for improving a man’s putting, had arrived. He donned his favourite suit of plus-fours, and, taking putter and ball, went down to the hall.
He had just grounded the ball and was taking careful aim at the leg of the sofa, when from the recesses of that sofa two clenched fists suddenly rose in the air and an unseen someone uttered the gasping sigh of the newly awakened.
“God bless my soul!” said Sir Hugo.
It was his nephew William. That much was plain from the tousled head which now appeared. Sir Hugo drew nearer to observe this strange phenomenon.
“Oh, hullo, uncle,” said Bill drowsily.
Sir Hugo was a man who always went to the root of a problem.
“William,” he cried, “what are you doing there?”
“Eugh!“ replied Bill, stretching. He blinked.” What?” he asked sleepily.
Sir Hugo was not to be diverted from his theme.
“That’s what I said—’ What?’”
“What?”
“Yes, what?”
Bill rubbed his eyes.
“What what?” he asked.
Sir Hugo became impatient.
“Good God, boy, wake up!”
Bill rose to his feet. He inspected his uncle uncertainly.
“What did you ask me?” he said.
“Have you been sleeping there all night?”
“Yes,” said Bill. “Oo, I’m stiff!”
“But why?”
“Well, wouldn’t you be stiff if you had slept all night on a hardish sofa?”
“I’m not asking you why you’re stiff. I’m asking why you slept on that sofa?”
Bill was awake now.
“I gave up my room to a lady. Yes, I— Oh, heavens!” said Bill peevishly.” Need we do this vaudeville cross-talk stuff so early in the morning?”
“But I don’t understand. Did a lady arrive last night?”
“Yes. Soon after eleven.”
“Good God!” Like Lord Tidmouth, he felt that Lottie had not wasted time.” Did you see her?”
“Of course I saw her.”
“I mean, you spoke to her? You had a talk—a conversation—an interview with her?”
“Yes.”
Sir Hugo probed delicately for information.
“What occurred?”
“How do you mean, what occurred?”
“Well—er—did you come to an understanding?”
“No!” said Bill.
“Did you—ah, how shall I put it?—did you shower her face with kisses?”
“No, I did not!”
Sir Hugo looked like a minor prophet receiving good news about the latest battle with the Philistines.
“Capital! Excellent! Precisely as I foresaw.
When the test came, you found you were a Bannister, after all. I knew it. I knew it.”
Bill regarded his rejoicing relative sourly.
“Uncle,” he said, “you’re gibbering.”
He spoke with feeling. The one thing a man does not want to meet, when he has slept all night on a sofa and has not had breakfast, is a gibbering uncle.
“I am not gibbering,” said Sir Hugo.” I repeat that you have proved yourself a true Bannister. You have come nobly out of the ordeal. I foresaw the whole thing. Directly you saw this woman in the home of your ancestors, beneath the gaze of the family portraits, the scales fell from your eyes and your infatuation withered and died.”
Bill would have none of this.
“It did not wither,” he said emphatically. Sir Hugo stared.
“It did not wither?”
“It did not wither!”
“You say it did not wither?”
Bill gave him a nasty look.
“Damn it, uncle, you’re back to the cross-talk stuff again.”
“You mean to tell me,” cried Sir Hugo, “that, even after you have seen this woman in your ancestral home, you are still infatuated with her?”
“More than ever.”
“Good God!”
“And I’m not going to rest,” said Bill, “till I have made her my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife.”
“Your—”
Bill held up a warning hand.
“Uncle!”
“You want to marry her?”
“Yes.”
“But— Good heavens, boy! Have you reflected?”
“Yes.”
“Have you considered?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gone off your head?”
“Yes. No,” said Bill quickly.” What do you mean?”
“You—a Bannister—want to marry this woman?”
“Yes. And I’m going to find her now and tell her so.”
Sir Hugo gazed after him blankly. He mopped his forehead and stared gloomily into the future. He was feeling that this was going to put him right off his game. He doubted if he would break a hundred to-day —after this.
He was still brooding bleakly on this lamentable state of affairs when the door of the room to the left of the stairs opened and Lottie came out, all brightness and camaraderie. Her air of sparkling-eyed cheerfulness smote Sir Hugo like a blow, even before she had come within speaking rang
e.
“Hello, Doc,” said Lottie amiably.
“Good morning,” said Sir Hugo.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“No. I heard that you had arrived. I have just been talking to William, and he has told me the appalling news.”
Lottie was puzzled.
“What news?”
“He is resolved to marry you.”
A slight but distinct cloud marred Lottie’s shining morning face. She looked at her companion narrowly, and her hands began to steal towards her hips.
“Just what,” she asked, “do you mean by ‘appalling news’?”
“It is appalling,” said Sir Hugo stoutly.
Lottie breathed softly through her nose.
“You think I’m not good enough for him?”
“Precisely.”
“Listen!” said Lottie, in a spirit of inquiry. “What’s the earliest in the morning you ever got a sock right on the side of the head?”
Sir Hugo became aware that something he had said —he could not think what—had apparently disturbed and annoyed this woman before him. He did not like the way she was advancing upon him. He had seen tigresses in the Zoo walk just like that.
A swift thinker, he took refuge behind a chair and held up a deprecating hand.
“Now, now, my good girl—”
“Don’t you call me a good girl!”
“No, no,” said Sir Hugo hastily. “You’re not. You’re not. But, my dear Miss—”
“Mrs.”
“My dear Mrs.—”
“Higginbotham is the name.”
“My dear Mrs. Higginbotham, cannot you see for yourself how utterly impossible this match is?”
Lottie drew in her breath sharply.
“Honest,” she said, “I owe it to my womanly feelings to paste you one.”
“No, no. Be reasonable.”
“How do you mean it’s impossible?“ demanded Lottie warmly.” If Bill’s so crazy about me—”
“But William is a Bannister.”
“What of it?”
“And you—“ Sir Hugo carefully paused. He realized that infinite tact was required. “After all —in the kindliest spirit of academic inquiry—who are you?”
“Née Burke. Relict of the late Edwin Higginbotham,” said Lottie briefly.
“I mean, what is your family?”
“If anybody’s been telling you I’ve a family, it’s not true.”
“You misunderstand me. But the whole thing is impossible—quite impossible.”
“How do you mean?”
“My dear young lady,” said Sir Hugo, “have you really reflected what marriage to William would be like? My nephew, you must remember, my dear Mrs. Higginbotham, is a Bannister. And, without meaning to be in any way offensive, I think you will admit that your social position is scarcely equal to that of a Bannister. I fear the county would resent it bitterly if William should be considered to have married beneath him. Cannot you see how unpleasant it would be for you—received by nobody, ignored by all? Your proud, generous spirit would never endure it. And, believe me,” said Sir Hugo feelingly, “this damn out-of-the-way place is quite dull enough even when you have got a neighbour or two to talk to. My dear girl, you would be bored stiff in a week.”
Lottie frowned thoughtfully. Hers was a mind that could face facts, and she had to admit that she had never considered this aspect of the matter before.
“I never thought of that,” she said.
“Think of it now,” urged Sir Hugo.” Think of it very carefully. In fact, in order to enable you to think the better, I will leave you. Just sit quietly in one of these chairs, and try to picture to yourself what it would be like for you here during—say—the months of January and February, with no amusements, no friends—in short, nothing to entertain you but William. Think it over, Mrs. Higginbotham,” said Sir Hugo, “and if you wish to secure me for a further consultation you will find me walking in the raspberry bushes.”
He bustled out, and Lottie, taking his advice, sat down in a chair and began to think. He had opened up a new line of thought.
Presently there was a sound behind her—the sound of one meditatively singing “I Fear no Foe in Shining Armour “, and she was aware that she had been joined by Lord Tidmouth.
“Hullo, old egg!” said Lord Tidmouth.
“Hullo, Squiffy!” said Lottie.
She was pleased to see him. Although, some years earlier, she had been compelled to sever the matrimonial bond that linked them, she had always thought kindly of dear old Squiffy. He was her sort. He liked dancing and noisy parties and going to the races and breezing to and fro about London. Theirs, in short, was a spiritual affinity.
“Squiffy,” she said, “I’ve just been having a talk with old what’s-his-name.”
“Sir Hugo?”
“Yes. Do you know what he said?”
“I can tell you verbatim,” replied Lord Tidmouth confidently.” He said that, while fair off the tee, he had a lot of trouble with his mashie-shots, and this he attributed to—”
“No. He was talking about Bill.”
“What about Bill?”
“Well, what would happen if I married Bill.”
“What did the old boy predict?”
“He said I would be bored stiff.”
Lord Tidmouth considered.
“Well,” he said, “I’m not saying he wasn’t right. Bill is a stout fellow-one of the best—but you can’t get away from the fact that he insists on spending most of his life in this rather mouldy spot.”
“Is it mouldy?”
“Pretty mouldy, from what I have seen of it. All right if you care for being buried in the country—”
“It’s a pretty place. As far as I’ve seen—from my window.”
“It is pretty,” agreed Lord Tidmouth.” Very pretty. You might call it picturesque. Have you seen the river?”
“No.”
“It lies at the bottom of the garden. Except during the winter months, when—they tell me—the garden lies at the bottom of the river.”
Lottie shivered.
“It wouldn’t be a very lively place in winter, would it?”
“Not compared with some such spot as London.”
“Are you living in London now, Squiffy?”
Lord Tidmouth nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve come back to lay my old bones in the metrop.—when I’ve done with them, that’s to say. I’ve got a rather sweetish little flat in the Albany.”
“The Albany!” breathed Lottie wistfully.
“Right in the centre of things and handy for the theatres, opera houses, and places of amusement. All the liveliest joints within a mere biscuit-throw.”
“Yes.”
“Wasted on me, of course, because I never throw biscuits,” said Lord Tidmouth.” You must come and see my little nest.”
“I will.”
“Do.”
“Have you plenty of room there?”
“Eh? Oh, yes, lots of room.”
Lottie paused.
“Room for me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I mean—what’s the word I want?”
“I don’t know, old thing. Where did you see it last?”
“Permanently,” said Lottie.” That’s it.” She came to him and grasped the lapels of his coat. She looked up at him invitingly.” How would you like to have me running round the place, Squiffy?”
Lord Tidmouth wrinkled his forehead.
“I don’t think I’m quite getting this,” he said.” It seems to be sort of floating past me. If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re so keen on Bill, I should say you were—”
“I’m going to give Bill up.”
“No, really?”
“Yes. I couldn’t stick it here. The old boy was quite right. It would give me the willies in a week.”
“Something in that.”
“And the thought crossed my mind—”
�
��Well?”
“It just occurred to me as a passing idea—”
“What?”
“Well, you and me—”
“What about us?”
Lottie pulled at his coat.
“We always suited each other, Squiffy,“ she said. “I’m not denying we had our rows, but we’re older now, and I think we should hit it off. We both like the same things. I think we should be awfully happy if we had another try at it.”
Lord Tidmouth stared at her, impressed.
“Perfectly amazing you should say that,” he said.
“That very same thought occurred to me the moment I saw you at Bingley. I remember saying to myself, ‘Squiffy, old man,’ I said, ‘haven’t you rather, as it were, let a dashed good thing slip from your grasp?’ And I replied to myself, ‘Yes, old man, I have!’”
Lottie beamed at this twin-soul.
“I’m awfully fond of you, Squiffy.”
“Awfully nice of you to say so.”
“After all, what are brains?”
“Quite.”
“Or looks?”
“Exactly.”
“Kiss me.”
“Right-ho.”
“Nice?”
“Fine.”
“Have another?”
“Thanks!”
“Once again?”
“In one moment, old thing,” said Lord Tidmouth.” We will go into this matter later, when we have a spot more privacy. I observe our genial host approaching.”
He waved his hand at the last of the Bannisters, who was coming in through the french windows from the lawn.
CHAPTER XIV
BILL was peevish.
“Oh, there you are!“ he said, sighting Lottie.
“Yes, here I am.”
“‘Morning, Bill,” said Lord Tidmouth agreeably.
“Go to hell!“ said Bill.
“Right-ho,” said his lordship.
Bill turned to Lottie.
“Are you proposing to stay here long?” he asked.
“No,” said Lottie, “I’m going off to London with my future husband.”
“Your—who?”
“Me,” said Lord Tidmouth.
Bill digested the news. It did not seem to relieve his gloom.
“Oh!“ he said. “Well, a fat lot of use that is-now.”
Lottie looked hurt.
“Bill, I believe you’re cross with me.”
“Cross?”
“Isn’t he cross?” asked Lottie, turning to her betrothed for support.
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