Culloden felt as once he had felt in an asylum, watching a mad architect gleefully supervising the construction of a new wing. The poor wretch was intoxicated with his own importance, and the bricklayers were calling him ‘Sir’ and laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks.
The peer felt suddenly ashamed. He was subscribing to this tragic pantomime, taking advantage of an idiot’s whim. He was—
Another picture rose up before his eyes. He saw the halls deserted, the ball-rooms empty . . . saw his host and hostess in melancholy state, the servants idle, yawning, kicking their heels . . . heard the bands droning music to which no feet danced . . . perceived with a shock the awful dreariness of riches with none to gather them.
Culloden decided that the woman beside him was no fool. It was her glory to kill the fatted calf. She was labouring under no delusion. She knew. She actually thanked her guests, begged them to batten upon her, meant what she said.
After all, his visit was neither more nor less than a happy deal. It suited the Countess’ book, and it suited his. What he found especially pleasant was that for once in a way his title was cutting no ice. He was not being named: no one was being introduced. Teddy Mandeville was perfectly right—they really left him alone. He might have been Albert Binks, of High Street, Clapham.
He had arrived at Chiennile that Tuesday afternoon—a day later than he had said, but that was because there had raged a storm in the Channel and the present expediency of humouring his stomach had been impressed upon him. Upon his arrival he had found that Mandeville had left the château. It seemed that the latter had been wired for on Sunday night. His Grace considered, frowning, that, even if he could not advise, Teddy might at least have left him a note. However. . . .
A major-domo had received him and had shown him his rooms. It was clear that, for all his respect, the man had had no idea that he was not conducting a commoner. Culloden was faintly surprised and immensely relieved. The last thing he wanted was the carpet down. Still, it was curious. None of the servants knew. Yet—‘They’re mad to have you.’ Possibly Teddy had paved this admirable way. . . .
Labotte entered the room.
For a moment he stood, looking round. Then he joined the circle about Boschetto.
He at once perceived that the latter was doing his best to please and decided to exploit the endeavour. He therefore directed attention to the poor labourer by laughing and nudging his neighbours and presently mimicking the manner of his host.