I can quite understand that Crossan’s owning a motor car must have a very irritating effect on Godfrey. I cannot afford to keep one. That any one else in the district over which I ought, according to Godfrey’s theory, to be a kind of king, should assume a grandeur impossible for me is simply an aggravated kind of insolence. No wonder that Godfrey, with the honour of the family at heart, resented Crossan’s motor car. I tried to soothe him.
“It’s probably quite an inferior machine,” I said. “It will break down soon.”
“It’s not only that,” said Godfrey, “though I think Crossan ought to stay at home and mind his business. He must be neglecting things. But—I wish you’d walk up to the store with me, Excellency. Crossan’s away.”
“I’d much rather go when Crossan’s at home,” I said; “but, of course, if you won’t leave me in peace until I do, I may as well go at once.”
I got my hat and walking stick. On the way up to the store Godfrey preserved an air of mysterious importance. I had no objection whatever to his doing this; because he could not talk and look mysterious at the same time, and I particularly dislike being talked to by Godfrey. I expect he tried to be dignified with a view to impressing me, but just before we reached the store he broke down and babbled fatuously.
“Marion told me yesterday,” he said, “that she’d had a letter from that fellow Power.”
“She told me that too,” I said.
“Well, I think you ought to put a stop to it. It’s not right.”
“My dear Godfrey,” I said, “you appear to forget that he’s one of the Powers of Kilfenora and private secretary to a millionaire.”
This twofold appeal to the highest and strongest feelings which Godfrey possesses ought to have silenced him. He did, I think, feel the force of what I said. But he was not satisfied.