“I would always entertain Lady Condor. Or rather, I am always sure Lady Condor will entertain me.”
“Well, I am delighted with Mr. Pithey,” announced Lady Condor, reoccupying her chair, and enjoying the sensation she created. “Yes. In Mr. Pithey I see our—now what is the word I want?—oh yes—our avenger! The people have dethroned Us. They are taxing Us out of existence. Condor told me this morning he must put the Cleve estate into the market. I shall be lucky if I keep my diamonds, and poor Hawkhurst will be lucky if he and his wife don’t end in the workhouse. But where was I? I had got it all in my head just now. If only I could write it all down directly I think of it, I could make my fortune as a writer of leaders in a daily paper. Yes. They have dethroned Us, and they will get Pitheys, dozens of Pitheys, instead. We shall be ruined, obsolete, extinct, but we shall be revenged. They will get Pitheys in our place. Heaven be praised! The old nouveaux riches were bearable. They had reverence, they recognized their limitations, they were prepared to be taught. Look at you dear people, of course we have all known about the margarine. And you, dear Nita, yours was wine—or was it mineral water?—something to drink, wasn’t it? We needn’t hide anything now, because the Pitheys will strip everything bare. If you dear things had come here with 2½d. a year, and lived in a villa, we should never have known you. And yet—yes, now I have it—yet really and truly, Roger was the real aristocracy. The aristocracy of brains. The margarine and wine didn’t matter, nor did the money—at least, I mean it ought not to have. I’m getting terribly muddled! And where is my scarf? Did I drop it when I got up? Oh, here it is. You see, We made the aristocracy of wealth. We couldn’t resist the shoots in Scotland for the boys, and the balls for the girls, and the snug directorships on big companies. Yes—we smirched our position—our grandfathers and grandmothers would never have done it. And now here we are positively being patronized—yes, dear Arthur—patronized by Pitheys. I think I have gone off on to another tack. It was losing my scarf! But I am delighted with Pithey. He will avenge Us on the masses—Pithey the Avenger—yes. But I should have put it much better if I could have said it while he was here. Arthur, do look more cheerful! Think of Pithey as the avenger. It makes him so bearable. And I will have that cup of tea, Roger!”
“I cannot laugh,” said Mr. Fothersley. His voice, even though addressing Lady Condor, held a word of rebuke. “We should never have called! It enrages me to think that we should have submitted to such—such——”
Words failed him. “However,” he added, “we have reason to be thankful we did not call on the St. Ubes. I gathered to-day that the name, which might easily have misled us, was originally Stubbs. I shall not call. These Pithey people——”
Again words failed him, and Lady Condor chuckled.
“Mrs. Pithey disapproves of me,” she announced. “She is probably telling Mr. Pithey that I paint. I must own it is very badly done to-day; Mullins was in a temper. She always makes me up badly when she is in a temper. Now do let us enjoy ourselves! Let us forget the Pithian invasion. Thank you—and some cake—yes. And some one else must have some tea to keep me company. Dear Nita—yes. The poor hostess never gets enough tea. Now this is cosy. And where are my glasses? I have not looked at the tennis yet. And I know it is very good. And I have not spoken to dear Violet, or to Fred. And there, why surely they are playing together. Did they draw together? How strange! The child is lovelier than ever. And now they have finished. Bring them to have tea with me. What is Fred now? A major! Isn’t it too ridiculous? And I suppose those little boys you have brought with you in R.A.F. uniforms are Brigadier-Generals. And have you won the tournament, my dears?”
“No,” said Fred Riversley. He and Violet had shaken hands and had waited till Lady Condor stopped for breath. “No. I played very badly. Even Vi couldn’t pull me through.”
He was a fair heavily-built young man, and while the ladies talked, all three seemingly at once, for Lady Condor rarely ceased, he sat down on the grass and was at once the centre of attraction for the five dogs. When a momentary pause occurred, he asked, “How’s Dudley?”
“Dudley,” said Lady Condor, “has got his aluminium leg. It is really too wonderful. You’d never guess it wasn’t a real live leg—unless he tries to run, which of course he mustn’t do. But everything else. And John, we had letters from only yesterday. Russia—yes—and Heaven knows when we’ll get him back. And where is your Harry? Why, it seems only yesterday he was retrieving tennis balls in a sailor suit!”
“Harry is stuck at Marseilles,” said Riversley, “on his way to Egypt. Doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him till Peace is signed.”