At the upper end of the room a low platform served as a safe retreat
for sleepy chaperons on such occasions as the annual Ferriby ball.
To-night there were no chaperons. Is not charity the safest as well as
the most lenient of these? And does her wing not cover a multitude of
indiscretions?
Upon this platform there now appeared, amid palms and chrysanthemums, a long, rotund man like a bolster. He held a paper in his hand and wore a platform smile. His attitude was that of one who hesitated to demand silence from so well-bred a throng. His high, narrow forehead shone in the light of the candelabra. This was Lord Ferriby—a man whose best friend did his best for him in describing him as well-meaning. He gave a cough which had sufficient significance in it to command a momentary quiet. During the silence, a well-dressed parson stood on tiptoe and whispered something in Lord Ferriby's ear. The suggestion, whatever it may have been, was negated by the speaker on receipt of a warning shake of the head from Joan.
“Er—ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Ferriby, and gained the necessary silence. “Er—you all know the purpose of our meeting here to-night. You all know that Lady Ferriby and myself are much honoured by your presence here. And—er—I am sure——” He did not, however, appear to be quite sure, for he consulted his paper, and the colonial bishop near the yellow chrysanthemums said, “Hear, hear!”
“And I am sure that we are, one and all, actuated by a burning desire to relieve the terrible distress which has been going on unknown to us in our very midst.”
“He has missed out half a page,” said Joan to Major White, who somehow found himself at her side again.
“This is no place, and we have at the moment no time, to go into the details of the manufacture of malgamite. Suffice it to say, that such a—er—composition exists, and that it is a necessity in the manufacture of paper. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the painful fact has been brought to light by my friend Mr. Roden——” His lordship paused, and looked round with a half-fledged bow, but failed to find Roden.
“By—er—Mr. Roden that the manufacture of malgamite is one of the deadliest of industries. In fact, the makers of malgamite, and fortunately they are comparatively few in number, stricken as they are by a corroding disease, occupy in our midst the—er—place of the lepers of the Bible.”
Here Lord Ferriby bowed affably to the bishop, as if to say, “And that is where you come in.”
“We—er—live in an age,” went on Lord Ferriby—and the practical Joan nodded her head to indicate that he was on the right track now—“when charity is no longer a matter of sentiment, but rather a very practical and forcible power in the world. We do not ask your assistance in a vague and visionary crusade against suffering. We ask you to help us in the development of a definite scheme for the amelioration of the condition of our fellow-beings.”
Lord Ferriby spoke not with the ease of long practice, but with the assurance of one accustomed to being heard with patience. He now waited for the applause to die away.