“I think,” he said gravely, “it is worth trying.”
CHAPTER IV
Mrs. North’s tennis party pursued its usual successful career in the brilliant sunshine, which, as Mr. Fothersley remembered, always favoured her. Fred Riversley had brought an unexpected carload of R. A. F. boys down from London with him. This made a tournament possible, as Mrs. North saw at once. They drew partners with much fun and laughter. Mr. Fothersley telephoned to Fairbridge for a selection of prizes to be sent out by the 4.30 bus. It was one of the charming sort of things which Mr. Fothersley did. It was more particularly nice of him on this particular afternoon than usual, because, so far as Mr. Fothersley was concerned, Mr. Pithey was making it almost unbearable.
He was a large, flat, pale yellow gentleman, with a peculiarly penetrating metallic voice. He had a very long nose, with a broad tip curving upwards, and small keen eyes which darted everywhere. Without the slightest hesitation he took the place which from time immemorial belonged to Mr. Fothersley at all Mentmore parties. Under the beech-tree, where by all the rights of precedence Mr. Fothersley should have led the conversation, Mr. Pithey’s metallic voice held sway and drove all before it. In the usual walk round the garden, always personally conducted by Mr. Fothersley and his hostess, Mr. Pithey laid down the correct lines on which to bed out, to grow carnations, to keep down weeds, or anything else that cropped up. When Mr. Fothersley drew attention to the fact that on any of the courts the final of the hard-fought set was in progress, it was Mr. Pithey’s voice that drowned all others as he shouted “Well played!” and gave advice to all concerned. In fact, Mr. Pithey dominated the party.
Mrs. Pithy, a small blue-faced lady, very expensively dressed, sat in a comfortable basket chair with her feet on a stool and, unless actually asked a question, she spoke to no one except her husband, whom she always addressed by name. Bertie when she remembered, ’Erb when she forgot.
Even the arrival of Lady Condor, undoubtedly the personage of the place, made no impression on this strange couple’s evident conviction that they were people of supreme importance in the universe. Lady Condor could have put the Old Gentleman himself in his place if the mood were on her, but on this occasion, as it happened, she was frankly and evidently entertained by the Pitheys. Mr. Fothersley regretted it. Seldom had he looked out more anxiously for the arrival of her wheeled chair surrounded by its usual escort of five white West Highlanders. Lady Condor always used her chair, in preference to her car, for short journeys, so that her dogs also might have an outing. Seldom had he been more disappointed in her, and Lady Condor was given to amazing surprises. This was certainly one of them. Solemnly, and as far as was possible in his manner conveying the honour being conferred on him, Mr. Fothersley led Mr. Pithey to Lady Condor’s chair, so soon as she had been ensconced by her hostess in a comfortable and shady spot near the tea-tables and with a good view of the tennis. Not that she ever looked at it for more than a second at a time, she was always too busy talking, but it was de rigueur that she should have the best place at any entertainment.
Mrs. Pithey, for the moment, it was impossible to introduce, as it would plainly not occur to her to leave her chair until she had finished her tea for anybody, except, possibly, Mr. Pithey.
Mr. Fothersley effected Mr. Pithey’s introduction admirably. The delicate shade of deference in his own manner left nothing to be desired.
“May I be allowed to present Mr. Pithey, dear Lady Condor?” he asked, deftly bringing that gentleman’s large pale presence into her line of vision.
“Ah—how-d’ye-do? No, don’t trouble to shake hands.” She waved away a large approach. “You can’t get at me for the dogs. And where are my glasses? Arthur, I have dropped them somewhere. Could it have been in the drive? No, I had them since. What! on my lap? Oh yes—thank you very much.”