Odd as the circumstances were, there was not a suspicion of constraint. Mr. Montagu Jupp saw to that. As a matter of course he presided over the revels. His badinage rolled from one end of the table to the other, his wit vollied unceasingly. True to himself, in as rare a moment as life had given him, he spared neither age nor sex nor social position. Even an enraged parent finding a most excellent dinner to be a real stimulus to a sense of humor could not resist Montagu’s audacity. It was not so much what he said, it was the way in which he said it. Nevertheless, the great man’s words were exceedingly to the point.
What, for example, could have been more apposite than the impromptu speech in which he proposed the health of Lord Duckingfield? He rose at a moment when a lull was threatening and in terms which set the table in a roar he offered that peer sincere felicitations on his approaching marriage. Moreover, he ventured to link with the toast the name of their friend Miss Cass.
The toast was honored with acclamation. No doubt the acclamation was the louder for the fact that these primitive people were fully aware that for once even the admired Montagu had sailed rather close to the wind. There was a moment when the success of the ballon d’essai hung in the balance. In this world there is a limit to most things, after all!
For the brief space of thirty seconds the look on the face of the worthy Midlander seemed to promise an early delivery of the long-delayed punch on Montagu’s nose. It was nearly fifty years since he had last received one at his private school. But as the sequel proved, Montagu’s wonderful faculty of divination had judged to a nicety the thickness of the ice.
Lord Duckingfield rose slowly and heavily to his feet and thanked the company for their kind words. He thanked them not only on his own behalf, but—turning to the bewildered little girl at his side with the most courtly bow he could command—also on behalf of the lady who he hoped would do him the honor to become his wife.
The effect of the announcement may have been a trifle marred by a loud shriek from the little baronet. Stimulated by Sir Toby’s threat of hysteria, Mr. Jupp broke suddenly into “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” The strain was promptly taken up and musical honors were bestowed upon my lord.
In the meantime the bewildered Girlie was passing through a sort of dream. She could not believe her ears. At any rate, she could not believe the words of Lord Duckingfield. She was really in love with this good fellow. It was not merely that he alone could stand between her and a cruel world, it was not merely that he was her only protector; she loved him for his manliness, his generosity, his large simplicity. But a girl like herself could never hope to be his wife, particularly after having made of him a public laughing stock.
Still it is the unexpected that happens. An hour later, in the lee of the hall stairs, Lord Duckingfield was able to prove to Girlie Cass that he fully intended to be as good as his word.
About the same time, in the seclusion of the library, Elfreda took pains to prove to George Norris that she also was determined to keep faith with him. A stormy interview with her father did something to nerve her for the task. But, in any case, her mind was made up. Her year in London with the V. A. D. had opened her eyes to the world and the things around her. She saw a chance of permanent escape from the stuffy circle in which she had been brought up. Her pompous, caste-ridden parents, her narrow, conventional sisters—what did they stand for, after all?