II
The Albert Hall Ball, in aid of the hospitals of London, will be remembered by many people as one of the most brilliant entertainments of the brilliant season of 1922. But it will be remembered by Mrs. Lyon-West—she was a New York Lyon before she married a Hampshire West—for a remarkable conversation with young Lord Paramour, who, after dancing with her beautiful daughter, had drifted into her box. The word “drifted” is here used in its strictly nautical sense, for Lord Paramour had not the faintest idea into whose box he was entering. He had, after having danced with Miss Lyon-West (whose name he did not know, which is a grave reflection on the present state of society) discovered a distaste for the company of his guests in his own box, and had wandered to the first door he saw and shoved it open. Lord Paramour was an abstemious young man, but that night he had indulged in a glass or so of wine, wittily remarking to a friend that “a chap can’t dance in cold blood.”
“Why, good-evening, Lord Paramour!” cried Mrs. Lyon-West brightly.
“Ah,” said Lord Paramour. “’Evening. Sorry, I’m sure.” And he proceeded to drift out of the box again.
“But please don’t go so soon, Lord Paramour! I am delighted to see you. Only a moment ago I was remarking how beautifully you and my daughter were dancing together!”
“Your daughter? Ah!” And Lord Paramour, who couldn’t for the life of him remember the lady’s name, nor where he had met her, sat down and regarded her benevolently. “Better call her madam,” he thought to himself.
“Enchanting girl, madam. Enchanting dancer. Enchanting lines. Enchanting everything. In fact, madam, a very adequate girl, your daughter.”
“I am so glad you like her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. Mrs. Lyon-West had a reputation to keep up as to brightness.
“Like her, madam!” cried Lord Paramour. “I like her enormously. Most girls, I find, are rather tiresome—but your daughter, madam, is most unusual. And she is witty, which is remarkable in a girl. Please don’t deny it—I distinctly heard her say something witty while we were dancing. She said, if I remember aright: ‘The art of dancing is not to dance but to avoid other dancers.’ Now that, madam, is a mot, in fact it is a bon mot. I am very partial to a bon mot, madam. And considering that I had just bumped the back of her head into some ass’s elbow I think it was very apt of her. I was much impressed by your daughter, madam.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “looks aren’t everything. A woman should be clever as well as beautiful——”
“Exactly,” said Lord Paramour. “Exactly. Or quite.”
“She reads such a lot!” sighed Mrs. Lyon-West.
“Well, well, there’s nothing like reading,” said Lord Paramour. “Personally, I can never find anything to read these days. Lot of septic trash.”
“But you are so fastidious, Lord Paramour!”
“Oh, not at the moment, madam!”
“Well, then, why are you so long getting married?” asked Mrs. Lyon-West with a bright smile.
“Lot of trash,” again sighed Lord Paramour. “Young women very inferior these days, madam. Always, of course, excepting your daughter.”
“Don’t except her. Marry her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West wittily.
“Not bad, that!” chuckled Lord Paramour. “But not good, either. Would she, d’you think, consider my advances favourably?”
Mrs. Lyon-West thought she would, and Lord Paramour sighed.
“Shall I tell you,” he put to her, “something that I have never told any one else? Shall I tell you why I have never married and why I cannot marry your daughter, enchanting though she is? Are you sure you will not be offended?”
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Lyon-West. “Oh, please tell me!” She had not dreamed of getting so far.
“Well, it’s like this,” began Lord Paramour sadly. “But I must put it delicately. If you have read or seen Trilby, you will remember that the three artist fellows were terribly upset on hearing that Trilby had sat to another artist fellow for the ‘altogether.’ You get my meaning, madam? You are not offended?”
Mrs. Lyon-West said she did and she wasn’t.
“Well, then, it’s like this. I am, madam, incapable, constitutionally, physically, and mentally incapable of marrying any one whom I have not seen in the ‘altogether’——”
“Sir,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “how dare you?”
“That’s just the point,” sighed Lord Paramour. “I daren’t. And that’s why I can’t marry any one.” He rose, saying sadly: “I knew you would be offended. Women are odd. Good-night, madam. Sorry, I’m sure. Enchanting girl, your daughter. She has promised me this dance. Good-night, madam.”
“Sir,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “good-night.”