If the truth must be set down, and that, of course, is essential in all circumstances, the parental communication, in spite of the fact that it had an impressive device on the back and a motto in a dead language, was not the first note that was opened at B4 the Albany on the following morning. It was not the second or the third either, because there was quite a pile of correspondence in front of the kidneys and bacon at a quarter-past ten in the forenoon of Tuesday, the first of February.
“Dear Philip,” said the parental communication when it was open at last, “your Mother will be pleased if you will come to luncheon to-morrow, as there is an important matter she would like me to speak to you about. Luncheon at one-thirty sharp, as I have to go down to the House. Your affectionate Father, S. of P.”
Mr. Philip helped himself pensively, but not illiberally, to kidneys and bacon. He sprinkled salt and pepper over them, spread mustard on the plate, buttered his toast, poured out a cup of tea of almost immoral strength, read over the parental communication again, and then made use of an objurgation.
“I wish the good old Mater wouldn’t get so meddlin’,” said he.
Nevertheless, like a dutiful young man, he decided he must go and lunch at No. 88 Grosvenor Square. But by the time he had put on his boots with five buttons, had been inserted into the coat with the astrachan collar, and had sauntered forth to his favorite florist’s, twirling his whanghee cane, somehow the good old sky of London didn’t look quite so bright as it did yesterday.
His favorite florist’s was in the charge of his favorite young lady assistant, Miss Pearson by name, whom a fortnight ago he had serious thoughts of calling Sally without her permission. But a good deal of water had flowed under London Bridge in the meantime, so that now whether she gave her permission, or whether she withheld it, he no longer yearned to be guilty of any such freedom.
Still, Miss Pearson was a very good sort for all that, and the heir to the barony raised his hat to her this morning in his politest manner, although perhaps it is right to remark that he would have done so on any other morning, and even if Miss Pearson had not been such a very good sort—but in that case he might have gone a little higher up the street, as far as Miss Jackson.
“Mornin’, Miss Pearson. How are we?”
Miss Pearson was so-so. Had been to the Coliseum to see Richard III the previous evening.