XXVI
When Girlie went down to dinner she was sustained by a subtle feeling of inward power. For the first time in her life she was upheld by perhaps the most desirable of all human emotions. As she entered the drawing room she caught the eye of Mr. Montagu Jupp. And, miracle of miracles, it was an approving eye. There was no doubt about that, since Girlie belonged to the sex that does not make mistakes in those little matters!
Yes, it was an approving eye. In the sight of Montagu and his peers, when the little Catkin lady came into the room timidly, with that rather hunted-fawn-look in her gray eyes, with the slight flush in her cheeks that went so well with the smart pink frock and the twist of ribbon in her fluffy fair hair, she really was a pretty little Puss. No wonder, thought the critics, that the worthy Duckingfield was up against his fate.
His prolonged tête-a-tête the previous evening in the alcove under the hall stairs had not passed without notice. In fact, it had been commented upon very freely. And while from the demeanor of my lord it was by no means clear that his suit was prospering, his “dash” was rather admired. That is to say, it was rather admired by the members of his own sex, who are always apt to cherish that quality, particularly in one of their middle-aged representatives. As far as the ladies were concerned, however, they could see absolutely nothing in the little noodle and they would not allow “that she was even pretty.” Still the episode itself, the look of my lord and the flush on the face of the S. L. C. lent a touch of romance to the evening. And romance is an elusive thing that is always welcome, even when furnished by the lives of other people.
Dinner was almost hilarious. All agreed that the great Montagu was beginning to do wonders already. He had even contrived in his magnetic way to draw a few sparks out of Lady Elfreda. This evening she was like a new person. She was a thing of wreathed smiles, of spasmodic giggles, and there could be no doubt that her acting was improving. But it was Montagu himself who was the key. He had his jest with everybody. No one was safe from his chaff. He took upon himself the rôle of the whimsical father of a comically stupid family. No one resented his humor although neither age nor sex was spared. He disparaged the food and the wine, he complained that his hostess was getting fat, he objected to the way in which Mrs. Spencer-Jobling did her hair. Everybody was sent into fits of laughter by his knack of saying the things that are not said; but the audacious art with which he masked their grim and sometimes brutal candor left him perfect master of the field.
The amazing Montagu, to the delight of the others, even went to the length of asking Lord Duckingfield “whether he had written yet to papa?” It was vain for the stolid Midlander to assume an air of childlike innocence. The table rocked with a laughter whose volume seemed to imperil the wine glasses and the crockery, when my lord was told that he had better make haste and do so “or that little Perisher will get there before you,” the statement being punctuated by an accusing finger in the direction of Sir Toby.
The revels of the evening, of which a lively meal was the prelude, were not perhaps the fine flowers of taste, but that they were greatly enjoyed by all concerned there could be no doubt. If exceptions there were to the rule they were furnished by the Deputy and Lord Duckingfield. Yet Lady Elfreda’s suitor was too much a man of the world to mind particularly; he may even have been rather flattered than otherwise to find himself so famous; while, as for Girlie, having been through so much and having so much more to go through, she feasted and laughed bravely, so that when the time came to retire to the drawing room with the other ladies she felt that she simply didn’t care what happened.
All the same, a brief withdrawal from the sphere of influence of Mr. Montagu Jupp convinced the Deputy that her fit of abandon was but temporary. Defenseless in the drawing room, at the tender mercies of her own sex, fear soon laid an icy finger upon her. So resolutely did the other ladies give her the cold shoulder—even the hostess who had been so kind appeared for some reason no longer her friend—that horrible doubts flooded back into her mind. How much did they know? What had they guessed? Suddenly Mrs. Spencer-Jobling made a sinister reference to clever thieves who got into smart houses and how they sometimes flaunted a title for the purpose, whereupon the well-informed Mrs. Conrad Jones cited the case of an adventurous lady from a hat shop who was able to steal diamonds by passing herself off as the daughter of a peer and thereby earned seven years penal servitude.
Icy fingers ran along the spine of the Deputy. Here was the writing on the wall. The half exultant tones of Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and Mrs. Conrad Jones seemed to leave no margin of hope. Surely they must know everything! The coffee cup began to shake in Girlie’s hand. Even the tall footman eyed her disdainfully. Only a remarkable effort of the will saved her from dropping the milk jug.
After a terrible twenty minutes, in which however nothing happened, the men came in, and as usual they brought with them an immediate change of atmosphere. Their geniality again banished for the time being the awful specter that stalked ever in the background of Girlie’s mind. She laughed hysterically as Mr. Jupp cakewalked to the piano and proceeded, by request, to give his famous imitation of a hen laying an egg with musical accompaniment. He then rolled back his cuffs and struck a series of dominant chords. “Now, ladies and gemmen.” It was an exact imitation of “Pony” Moore, the prince of Christy minstrels. “Set to partners, please. Now, my lord—her ladyship is ready for you. And I’ve asked the butler to have a curtain drawn across the alcove in the hall, so you may treat it as a private box.”