III
At the palazzo, a letter from Ellie Vanderlyn awaited Susy, containing four other letters addressed to “Nelson Vanderlyn, Esqre., New York City.” Susy read:
“One good turn deserves another ... you and Nick can stay all summer ... no expense—servants have orders ... just post these letters, one a week ... be good to my child....”
It was too plain!... vile!... infamous!... a child left behind ... abominable!... for her to take care of ... outrageous!... She would never do it ... they must leave this place at once....
But she awoke next morning to the sun shining through curtains of old brocade, making a network of golden scales upon the vaulted ceiling—to a luxurious breakfast in bed and a single tea-rose in an old Murano glass—and thought of—the child! How could she leave a lonely child exposed to all the evils of such a pampered infancy? Distasteful as it was to dwell in the palazzo of the ungodly—it was her duty ... and she did. The letters went in due course to N. Vanderlyn, Esqre.
Charlie Strefford arrived wearing a mouldy Panama hat, reminiscent of the Stilton cheese of old England—an eccentricity pardonable in the next-but-two to the Earldom of Altringham—only the present incumbent and his son intervening.
“Good old Streffy!”
“Where’s old Nick?”
“He’s writing, you know. Works all day on a philosophic romance—like Marius, you know.”
“Oh, I say!—good one!” laughed Streffy. “Nick’s Marius—you marry me—see? Capital!—Eh, what? Rath-er! Countess of Altringham—what? Altringham and son sure to die soon‘—’bout middle of the book—accident in hunting field or yacht capsizes in the Solent—sure to—always happens—one or other—absolutely. Think it over, old thing....”