The Blue Bulgarian Bazoukas discoursed really delightful music; tunes by Strauss and tunes by Wagner, oratorio by Monckton, masterpiece by Rubens, chic morsels by Debussy, rhapsodies by gentlemen whose names are easier to spell in Russian, the latest expression of the genius of German, things in Spanish, things in French, Elgar and Villiers Stanford, Sullivan and Dr. Parry, Leslie Stuart and the Abbé Liszt—but Arminius Wingrove never showed a feather.
Actually the hour of six had struck. With a glance of despair at the gold hunting repeater of infamous memory, the unhappy young man, for the good of the house, peremptorily ordered a glass of water and a toothpick. Already the motley throng of muffin-worriers, replete with tea and cake and music, had begun to take again to taxis, and to pair-horse vehicles, with and without cockades.
Now, what do you suppose had happened to Arminius? His excuse, when ten days later it happened to be forthcoming, was so comprehensive, that the dignity of human nature calls for a special chapter in which to unfold the same.
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH WE DRINK TEA AGAIN AT THE
CARLTON
It was the simple fact that Arminius Wingrove had forgotten all about it. Let us not be hasty in our blame, however, since according to his amende to Mr. Philip at least ten days after his breach of faith, he made it clear that he was without any sort of stain.
The plain fact was, Arminius Wingrove had been commanded at a moment’s notice to shoot at Burnham Beeches with Windsor Cassel. Comes as a great surprise to you, does it? Shouldn’t though. Because, when Lord Grey de Stilton caught a chill on the liver through standin’ on damp grass, and had to turn it up at a moment’s notice under the best medical advice, who was there else to send for but England’s handy man?
Poor idle rich young fellow had to chew dust and practice the complete art of humility. When next they encountered at the Betterton, ten days after this event, and the vain young man, not yet in possession of this information, ventured to reproach Arminius familiarly, by name, that most distinguished man fixed his eyeglass with his accustomed air of mental power, and as good as asked the heir to the barony, whose career at present was not, who the dev-vil he was a-talkin’ to. Not in so many words, perhaps, but it almost sounded like it.
“You are a rotter—so you are—to go back on your word like that. You promised to be at the Carlton last Monday week, and you never showed a feather. And it’s no use sayin’ that you did, because I waited an hour and a quarter for you.”
Arminius transfixed the poor unintellectual, though not with the naked eye.
“You haven’t been to Windsor.” Arminius removed his hat in his loyal mannah. “You don’t know the Cassel.”