The honest Duckingfield, confronted by a purple visage with a monocle glowing in the middle, an overcoat trimmed with astrachan and a superb expanse of buff gaiter, had to take a very tight hold upon himself. The worthy Midlander was not in any way a brilliant fellow, but five and forty years of traffic with the world had imbued him with a keen sense of the human comedy. This somewhat superlative arrival of Lady Elfreda’s father cast quite a strain upon his resources.
“Hallo, Ducks!” Lord Carabbas offered the large and genial hand of his race. “Good of you to send that wire. How’s that unfortunate girl of mine?”
“Oh, better—she’s much better.” But the eye of Ducks was a little evasive; anyhow, it sedulously avoided the eye of the noble marquis.
“Devilish glad to hear it.” Paterfamilias appeared to be greatly relieved. “I thought from your wire, that she was in for a bad time. Been overdoing it, evidently.”
“Ye-es, overdoing it—been overdoing it.” Ducks again avoided the eye of the anxious parent.
“Great strain, these theatrical performances, hey?”
“No doubt.”
“Hope she hasn’t upset the whole house.”
“Oh, no—not at all.” Ducks drew on his reserve of conventional politeness.
“Well, I’ll go and have a look at ’Freda. See you anon.”