“Well, yes, dear; I think so,” said her ladyship. “I don’t know that I can do much for the young man; you see, we go to Florence in a week’s time. I might give a concert; and so introduce him to the musical people; but I daresay Mr. Churchill has a plan ready—he is always so systematic. I wonder what the young man is like? Percy Levant is the name, isn’t it? Sounds Greek, doesn’t it? I hope he isn’t a foreigner; they generally smell so of tobacco, and it’s so dreadfully difficult to understand them; and they are not always presentable. There was a Signor Something-or-other, an artist they got me to patronize, and he used to swear dreadfully in Spanish, which no one understood, fortunately.”
“Then it did not so much matter,” said Doris.
“No,” said her ladyship, pensively. “I forget what became of him; I think he got into debt, and went back to Spain. There is one of his pictures in the saloon. I hope this young man is presentable. These young geniuses are often so—so gauche, and wear such old clothes.”
Doris could not help laughing at her ladyship’s doubts and fears.
“But genius covers a multitude of sins, doesn’t it?” she suggested, and Lady Despard brightened up.
“So it does; and, after all, if he should be a little rough why we can point out that all clever people are eccentric. Didn’t Dr. Johnson eat sweet sauce with his fish, and use his knife when he ought to have used his fork?”
“I think he did,” said Doris.
“Very well, then,” said Lady Despard, as if that settled it. “Just write a line and tell Mr. Churchill to bring him to dinner to-night! I think”—doubtfully—“that we’d better not have anybody!”
“In case this genius should eat with his knife,” said Doris, with a laugh; and presently she rose and, going to a davenport, wrote the required note.
Lady Despard, with her head on one side, watched her with pensive admiration.