With that we left them. Things began to move fast. Norris came down to dinner, and we all sat together in the dining-room with the new count. It was the last despairing effort of mama to grasp the persimmon. She had boosted her daughter within easy reach of said persimmon, but Gwendolyn refused to pull it down. Her attitude was polite but firm.
“It doesn't look good to me,” she seemed to be saying.
The count told thrilling tales of royal friends and palaces, and they all rang like good metal, for this count was a real aristocrat. Still, “No, thanks” was in the voice and manner of Gwendolyn. He twanged airy compliments on his little guitar.
“No, thanks!”
Gwendolyn gave me a sly wink and suggested that I should tell a story. I saw what was expected of me and got the floor and kept it. Finally the count played his best trump. They would be invited to a fête in the palace of a certain noted prince.
“No, thanks!” said Gwendolyn, before her mother could answer. “It is very kind of you, but we shall be so busy getting ready to sail.”
The count took his medicine like a thoroughbred.
“And you—you must not be astonished to see me in America before much time, I should say,” he answered.
“What a joy to welcome you there!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed.
Then followed a little duet in Fifth Avenue and Roman dialect with monocle and minuet accompaniment by the great artists Norris and Raspagnetti based on these allegations: