Barney put his arm round his daughter and, with a foolish-fond expression, said: “Didn’t I tell you, Frothingham? Wasn’t I right?”
If Frothingham had been new to “the States” he would have thought this the strongest kind of a bid for him to enter the family. But he understood the American character in its obvious phases now. “The old chap’s mad about her,” was all Barney’s speech suggested to him. “And,” he admitted to himself, “I think he has reason to be. She’s got the look I like.” He noted the humourous comment on her father’s flattery in Nelly’s dark eyes, as he examined her through his eyeglass with ostentatiously critical minuteness. “Quite up to the mark, I should say,” he replied with polite audacity, adding apologetically, “though I don’t pretend to be an expert.”
“You see, I did put on my dress suit, after all,” said Barney, looking down at his old-fashioned, ill-fitting evening clothes. “The children would have it. I always feel like a stranded fish in these togs. You see, I never wore ’em in my life till I was past forty.”
Wickham looked a little nervously at Frothingham; Nelly was smiling with frank amusement. Then Wickham looked ashamed of himself—but he carefully observed the peculiar stripes down the legs of Frothingham’s trousers and the curious cut of his waistcoat and coat—“I must find out who’s his tailor,” he thought. “Poole don’t send me over the real thing. I wish I dared wear a monocle. It’s a whole outfit of brains and manners by itself. I don’t believe he takes it out, even at night.”
A maid announced dinner—not “Dinner is served,” but “Dinner, Mr. Barney.” And Barney jumped up with, “I’m glad to hear it. I’m hungry as a wolf.” The dining room was done in old English fashion—and the dinner, too, though an American would have called it the American fashion. The feature of its four courses was a huge roast, set before Barney on a great platter, with a mighty carving knife like a cimetar and a fork like a two-pronged spit. Barney himself carved—an energetic performance, lacking in grace perhaps, but swift and sure. On the table between him and the platter was a pile of plates. He put a slice of the roast into the top plate and the waitress removed it, carried it to Nelly’s place and set it down before her. This was repeated until all were served.
Frothingham watched Barney’s movements attentively, surprised that any of the American upper classes condescended to eat in such simplicity. He was almost startled when a bottle of wine was brought, for he had not forgotten Barney’s denunciation of drink and drinkers. He had seen so many concessions of real or reputed principle for his benefit since he had been moving about in American “high life” that he was somewhat cynical as to principle in America. But he had not expected to find this degree, or even kind, of weakness in Barney. “He told me he wouldn’t permit the stuff to come into his house,” he thought, laughing to himself. Then he noticed that none of the family drank it. One taste was enough for him—“No wonder he’s opposed to wine,” he said to himself. Then aloud: “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take whiskey—a little Scotch.”
Barney showed amused embarrassment; Nelly and Wickham laughed. “We don’t have anything to drink,” she explained. “Father doesn’t approve. But he told us you’d been brought up differently—that you must have wine. So we’ve got wine, but there isn’t any whiskey.”
Frothingham looked vague—he was relieved to find that his friend Barney was not quite so weak as he had feared. “It doesn’t in the least matter,” he replied. “I shall get on famously with this.”
“I’ll take you down to the club after a while,” said Wickham, “and you can have all you want. And to-morrow—eh, father?”
“Yes—yes—of course,” answered Barney. “I never do try to put on style that I don’t get left.”