"I forgot," he pleaded.
"Forgot!"—indignantly. "Well, if you forget and mention her name again, I'll—I'll prick your tires."
"Any way," said George, "my withdrawal was little short of brilliant. You'll admit that? Incidentally, her protégé's an improvement on little Halbert, isn't he? I think we ought to have an appropriate supper to-night in his honour. What about killing the padded calf?"
Betty kissed him behind the left ear.
* * * * *
Long before Anthony had received his livery from the tailor at Brooch, he had settled down to his nice new life with heartfelt gratitude. The old zest of living had returned to him to stay. It was no longer necessary to make the best of things. From labouring in the trough of oppression he had been swept into waters more smooth than any he had dreamed of riding—a veritable lagoon of security and content.
At first, so long had he been mishandled by Fortune, that, like a cur that has been accustomed to ill-treatment, he viewed her present bounty with suspicion. Had she poured for him the wine of comfort to dash the cup from his lips ere it was empty? That would be just like the jade. He scanned the sky anxiously for a sign of the coming storm, and, finding it cloudless, saw in this calm some new miracle of treachery, and feared the worst. He was afraid, selfishly, for Mr. Bumble's health. The man was pink and well nourished. Anthony thought of apoplexy, and, had a medical book been available, would have sought a description of that malady's favourite prey. Mrs. Bumble was also well covered. Anthony hoped that her heart was sound. On these two lives hung all his happiness. He reflected that motoring was not unattended by peril, and the idea stayed with him for half a day. Had he not been ashamed, he would have laid the facts before George and besought him to drive carefully….
As the days, however, went placidly by and brought no evil, the smoking flax of his faith began to kindle, and his suspicions to wilt. His mind shook off its sickness and began to mend rapidly. Very soon it was as sound as a bell.
His temporary lapse from grace, above related, was so innocuous that it need not be counted to his discredit. His was the case of the pugilist who slipped on a piece of peel and felt unable to rise: had the place been a ring, instead of a pavement, he would have been up and dancing within ten seconds. So with Anthony—had Fortune frowned, he would have laughed in her face. It was her smile that made him cower. And, so long as she smiled, what mattered it if he cowered? Had Homer never nodded, gentlemen, till it was past his bed-time, neither you nor I would ever have heard of it.
If Betty had indeed affirmed that the housework to be done at The Shrubbery was nothing, she was guilty of hyperbole. All the same, the house was an easy one, and such labour as its upkeep entailed melted, beneath the perfectly organized attention of herself, Anne, and Lyveden, as snow beneath the midday sun. The three had more legitimate leisure than any three servants in England, and no residence in Europe was better kept. Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, of course, were in clover. It followed that Anthony Lyveden had much time to himself. Naturally companionable, he spent most of this with his colleagues; nevertheless, there were days when he liked to change his clothes, call Patch, and walk off into the forest with only the little dog for company. It was then that he could think of my lady….