Lord Tidmouth adjusted his monocle and surveyed Bill keenly.
“Yes,” he said, having completed the inspection. “I think he’s cross.”
Bill quivered with righteous wrath.
“You’ve only ruined my life, that’s all.”
“Oh, don’t say that, old top.”
“I just met her in the garden.” Bill’s face twisted.” She wouldn’t look at me.”
“Who wouldn’t?” asked Lord Tidmouth.
Bill brooded a moment. Then he turned to Lottie.
“Breakfast is ready in the morning-room,” he said. “I should be much obliged if you would get yours quick—and go.”
“Well, I must say you’re a darned fine host!”
“Oh, get along!”
“All right,” said Lottie proudly.” I’m going.”
“Save the brown egg for me,” said Lord Tidmouth.
“I must remain here awhile and reason with this bird.
Bill,” he said reproachfully, as Lottie left the room, “you’re very hard on that poor little girl, Bill. You show a nasty, domineering, sheiky spirit which I don’t like to see.
“I could wring her neck. What did she want to come here for—and last night of all nights?”
“But be fair, old man. She was sent for. Telegrams were dispatched.”
“Sent for?”
“Yes. By the aged relative. He wired to her to come.”
Bill stared.
“My uncle did?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth?”
“Well, it was like this—”
Bill blazed into fury.
“I’d like to wring his neck. Where is he? I’ll go and have a heart-to-heart talk with the old fool. What the devil does he mean by it? I’ll talk to him.”
Lord Tidmouth followed him to the door.
“Steady, old man. Be judicious. Exercise discretion.”
He realized that his audience had walked out on him and was now beyond earshot. He came back into the room, and was debating within himself whether it were best to breakfast now or to postpone the feast till after one or two of the murders which seemed imminent had taken place, when Sally came in from the garden.
“Oh, hullo!” he said. “So you got here?”
“Yes,” said Sally shortly.
“Well—er—good morning and so forth.”
“Good morning.”
Lord Tidmouth may not have been one of the world’s great thinkers, but he could put two and two together. This female, he reasoned, had turned up, after all, last night, and had presumably seen instantly through poor old Bill’s pretence of illness. This would account, in his opinion, for her air of pronounced shirtiness.
“Nice day,” he said, for want of a better remark.
“Is it?”
“If you’re looking for Bill,” said Lord Tidmouth perseveringly, “he’s gone out to murder his uncle.”
“I am not looking for Mr. Bannister.”
“Oh!” said Lord Tidmouth. “Oh? Well, in that case, right-ho. Coming in to breakfast?”
“No.”
“Oh!”
There was a silence. Lord Tidmouth was not equal to breaking it. Conversationally he had shot his bolt.
It was Sally who finally spoke.
“Lord Tidmouth.”
“On the spot.”
Sally choked.
“That woman…. That—that woman…. How long has she been here?”
“Lottie?“ said Lord Tidmouth.
“I don’t know her name.”
“Well, it’s Lottie,” he assured her. “Short for Charlotte, I believe. Though you never know.”
“Has she been living here?”
“Absolutely not. She arrived last night, round about midnight.”
“What! Is that true?”
“Oh, rather. The old uncle sent for her.”
“Sir Hugo? Sir Hugo sent for her?”
“That’s right.”
“But why?”
“Well, as far as I could follow him, it was something to do with psychology and all that sort of rot.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Well, it was this way. I gather that he thought old Bill was pining for her, and he fancied it would cure him if he saw her in the old ancestral home. Old Bill had nothing to do with it. He got the shock of his life when he saw her.”
Sally drew a deep breath.
“Oh, well, that’s a relief.”
“Glad you’re pleased,” said Lord Tidmouth politely.
“I thought my patient had had a relapse, which, after I had been working on him for three weeks, would have been too bad.”
Lord Tidmouth was seeing deeper and deeper into this business every moment.
“Old Bill’s potty about you,” he said.
“Indeed?”
“Absolutely potty. Many’s the time he’s raved about you to me. He says he could howl like a dog.”
“Really?”
“And, as for Lottie, if that’s the trouble, don’t give her another thought. If it’s of any interest, she’s going to marry me.
Sally was surprised.
“You? But that’s very rapid, isn’t it?”
“Rapid?”
“I mean, you’ve only seen her about twice, haven’t you?”
Lord Tidmouth laughed indulgently.
“My dear old soul,” he said, “the above and self were man and wife for years and years and years…. Well, at least eighteen months. I am speaking now of some time ago, when I was in my prime.”
“You mean you used to be married to—her?”
“Absolutely. And we’ve decided to give it another try. You never know but what these things will take better a second time. I think we’ll be like the paper on the wall. Great Lovers of History, if you know what I mean. I can honestly say I’ve never married a woman I felt more pally towards than Lottie.”
Sally held out her hand.
“I hope you’ll be very happy, Lord Tidmouth,” she said.
“Thanks,” said his lordship.” Thanks frightfully. And you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my dear old thing, I mean, now that you know that Bill’s relations with Lottie were strictly on the up-and-up, and realizing, as you must do, that he’s perfectly goofy about you, what I’m driving at is, why don’t you marry the poor old blighter and put him out of his misery?”
“Lord Tidmouth, mind your own business.”
Lord Tidmouth winced beneath the harsh words.
“I say,” he said plaintively, “you needn’t bite a fellow’s head off like that.”
Sally laughed.
“Poor Lord Tidmouth! I oughtn’t to have snubbed you, ought I?”
“Don’t apologize. I’m used to it. My third wife was a great snubber.”
“I was only annoyed for a moment that you should think I could possibly be in love with Mr. Bannister.”
Lord Tidmouth could not follow this.
“Don’t see why you shouldn’t be,” he said.” Bill’s an excellent chap.”
“A rich waster.”
“Handsome—”
“Mere conventional good looks.”
“Kind to animals.”
“Well, I’m not an animal. If ever I fall in love, Lord Tidmouth, it will be with someone who is some use in the world. Mr. Bannister is not my sort. If he had ever done one decent stroke of work in his life—”
“You’re pretty strong on work, aren’t you?”
“It’s my gospel. A man who doesn’t work is simply an excrescence on the social fabric.”
Lord Tidmouth’s monocle fell from its resting-place.
“Pardon me while I wince once more,” he said.” That one found a chink in the Tidmouth armour.”
“Oh, you!” said Sally, smiling.” One doesn’t expect you to work. You’re a mere butterfly.”
“Pardon me, I may be a butterfly, but I am not mere.”
“Yo
u’re not a bad sort, anyway.”
“Dear lady, your words are as music to my ears. Exit rapidly before you change your mind. Teuf-teuf!“ said Lord Tidmouth, disappearing in the direction of the breakfast-room.
Sir Hugo came bustling in from the garden. A recent glance at his watch, taken in conjunction with a sense of emptiness, had told him that it was time he breakfasted.
At the sight of Sally he stopped, astonished.
CHAPTER XV
HE peered at her, blinking. He seemed to be wondering whether much anxiety of mind had affected his eyesight.
“Doctor Smith!”
“Good morning, Sir Hugo.”
“I had no notion you were here.”
“I was sent for—last night—professionally.”
“Somebody ill?”
“Not now.”
“Are you making a long stay?”
“No. I shall leave almost immediately. I have to be in London for my hospital rounds.”
“Oh! Have you seen my nephew William?”
“Not since last night. Lord Tidmouth says he went out to look for you.”
“I am most anxious to find him. I have something of the most vital importance to say to him.”
“Yes?” said Sally indifferently.
“I am endeavouring to save him from making a ghastly blunder and ruining his whole life. He is on the very verge of taking a step which can only result in the most terrible disaster…. By the way, I knew there was something I wanted to ask you. When you putt, which leg do you rest the weight on?”
“I always putt off the left leg.”
“Indeed? Now that’s most interesting. The left, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Some people say the right.”
“Yes, J. H. Taylor says the right.”
“Still, Walter Hagen prefers the left.”
“He ought to know.”
“Yes. I remember seeing Walter Hagen hole a most remarkable putt. He was fully thirty feet from the hole on an undulating green. He—” Sir Hugo broke off. Something with the general aspect of a thunder-cloud had loomed through the french windows.” Ah, William,” he said, “I was looking for you.”
Bill gazed at him blackly.
“Oh, you were?” he said.” Well, I was looking for you. What’s all this that Tidmouth tells me?”
“Tidmouth tells you?”
“Yes, Tidmouth tells me.”
“Tidmouth tells you?”
A spasm shook Bill.
“Will you stop that cross-talk stuff!“ he cried. “What Tidmouth told me was that you had got hold of some asinine idea that I’m in love with Lottie Higginbotham.”
“Quite correct. And what I say, William, and I say this very seriously—”
Bill cut in on his oration.
“There’s only one woman in the world that I love, or ever shall love,” he said, “and that’s Sally.”
“Sally?“ said Sir Hugo, blinking.
“I’m Sally,” said Sally.
Sir Hugo looked from one to the other. He seemed stunned.
“You love this girl?” he gasped at length.
“Yes.”
Sir Hugo raised both hands, like a minor prophet blessing the people. His mauve face was lit up with a happiness which as a rule was only to be found there on the rare occasions when he laid an approach-putt dead.
“My dear boy!” he boomed. “My dear young lady! This is the most wonderful news I have ever had. Bless you! Bless you! My dear doctor, take him! Take him, I say, and may he be as happy as I should be in his place. I’ll leave you. Naturally you wish to be alone. Dear me, this is splendid news. William, you have made me a very happy man. What did you say your handicap was, my dear?”
“Six—at Garden City.”
“Six—at Garden City! Wonderful! What the Bannisters need,” said Sir Hugo, “is a golfer like you in the family.”
He toddled off, rejoicing, to his breakfast.
CHAPTER XVI
BILL laughed nervously.
I’m afraid,” he said, “Uncle was a little premature.”
“A little, perhaps.”
“But don’t you think—”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I had nothing to do with Lottie being there last night.”
“I know that.”
“And doesn’t it make any difference?”
“No.”
“But, Sally—”
“No. I’m afraid you’re not my sort of man.”
“I love you.”
“Is love everything?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Sally. “Respect matters, too.”
“I see. You despise me?”
“Not despise. But I can’t take you seriously.”
“I see.”
She thought that he was going to say more, but he stopped there. He walked to the desk and sat down.
“I’m sorry,” said Sally.
“Don’t mention it,” said Bill coldly. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Not yet.”
“You’d better go along and have it then. It’s in the morning-room.”
“Aren’t you having any?”
“I had a cup of coffee just now in the kitchen. I don’t want any more.”
“Have I spoiled your appetite?” asked Sally demurely.
“Not at all,” said Bill with dignity. “I very seldom eat much breakfast.”
“Nor do I. A very healthy plan.”
Bill had opened the drawer of the desk and was pulling papers out of it. He spoke without looking up, and his tone was frigid.
“You will excuse me, won’t you?” he said formally.
Sally was curious.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought of doing a little work.”
Sally gasped.
“Work!“ she cried, astounded.
She drew a step nearer, her eyes round.
“Yes,” said Bill aloofly, “business connected with the estates. I’ve been neglecting it.”
“Work?“ said Sally in a whisper.
Bill regarded her coldly.
“You won’t think me rude? I’ve got rather behindhand. I’ve been a little worried lately.”
“I didn’t know you ever did any work!”
“Oh? Well, I do—a considerable amount of work. Do you suppose a place like this runs itself?”
“But I never dreamed of this,” said Sally, still in the same hushed voice.” Do you mind if I sit here? I won’t disturb you.”
“Please do,” said Bill indifferently.
She settled herself in a chair and sat watching him. Ostentatiously ignoring her presence, he started to busy himself with the papers.
Some moments passed.
“How are you getting on?” she asked.
“All right, thanks.”
“I won’t disturb you.”
“That’s all right.”
There was another silence.
“You don’t mind my sitting here?” said Sally.
“Not at all.”
“Just go on as if I were not here.”
“Very well.”
“I would hate to feel I was disturbing you.”
“Kind of you.”
“So I won’t say another word.”
“All right.”
There was a brief interval of silence. Then Sally got up and stood behind him.
“What are you working at?” she asked.
Bill looked up and answered distantly.
“Well, if the information conveys anything to you, I am writing out an order for some new Alpha separators.”
“Alpha—what?”
“Separators. They are machines you use to separate the cream from the milk.”
“How interesting.” She came closer.” Why do you want Alpha separators?”
“Because I happen to own a dairy-farm.”
“You do? Tell me more.”
“More what?”
“More about your dairy-farm.”
Bill raised his eyebrows.
“Why? Does it interest you?”
“Tremendously,” said Sally.” Anything to do with work interests me…. An Alpha separator; it sounds complicated.”
“Why?”
“Well, it does.”
“It isn’t. If you’re really interested—”
“Oh, I am.”
Bill’s manner lost something of its frigidity. His dairy-farm was very near to his heart. He had fussed over it for years, as if it had been a baby sister, and he welcomed the chance of holding forth on the subject. So few people ever allowed him to do so.
“It’s based on centrifugal force,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Here’s a diagram.” An ardent note came into his voice.” That thing there is the reservoir.”
“I see.”
“Below it,” proceeded Bill emotionally, “is the regulator with a float-valve————”
“Go on,” said Sally, thrilled.
All the coldness had now left Bill Bannister’s demeanour and speech. An almost fanatical note had replaced it. He spoke with a loving warmth which would have excited the respectful envy of the author of the Song of Solomon.
“As soon as the regulator is full, “he said, his eyes shining with a strange light, “the float-valve shuts off the influx.”
Sally was all enthusiasm.
“How frightfully clever of it!”
“Shall I tell you something?“ said Bill, growing still more ardent.
“Do!”
“That machine,” said Bill devoutly, “can separate two thousand seven hundred and twenty-four quarts of milk in an hour!”
Sally closed her eyes ecstatically.
“Two thousand—”
“Seven hundred and twenty-four.”
They looked at one another in silence.
“It’s the most wonderful thing I ever heard,” whispered Sally.
Bill beamed.
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am!” She pointed. “And what’s that little ninctobinkus?”
“That—” Bill paused, the better to prepare her for the big news.” That,” he said passionately, “is the Holstein butter—churner.”
“O-o-oh!“ breathed Sally.
He looked at her anxiously.
“Is anything the matter?”
“No, no. Go on talking.”
“About milk?”
Sally nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I never knew it could be so exciting. Do you get your milk from contented cows?”
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