“Go across to Dean and Dawson’s,” said Miss Pearson. “Or you can use my telephone if you don’t want to run the risk of crossing the street. Egypt or Switzerland, or a short sea voyage. Think what a blow it would be to your father if you didn’t marry a lady in society.”
“Ha, you haven’t seen her yet, Miss Pearson,” cried the incredible young man. “If I could book a couple of stalls for Monday, do you think your young chap would mind accepting ’em?”
“Only too pleased, I’m sure,” said Miss Pearson promptly. “No false delicacy about Alf. He’s in the greengrocery the other side the Marble Arch.”
The heir to the barony was a little “slow in the uptake,” but, like others who labor under that natural defect, in the end he generally contrived to get to his destination.
“I hope you ain’t throwin’ yourself away, Miss Pearson,” said the heir to the barony. “Blow to your people, I’m sure, if you are side-tracked by anything under a bank clerk.”
“Money before position, Mr. Shelmerdine, is my motto,” said Miss Pearson. “If you’ve got the one, you can always get the other.”
The heir of the barony seemed rather impressed by this pearl of wisdom. He pondered it while that very able and personable young woman twined a piece of wire round a posy of violets. And then, as if to prove a general proposition, Position itself appeared, and somewhat abruptly terminated this instructive tête-à-tête.
Position entered in the person of a youthful marquis, leading a bull terrier whose natural beauty was almost as chastened as his own.
“Why, Shel—haven’t seen you for years!”
Position held out a hand, gloved somewhat aggressively in yellow. His senior by four years shook the gauntlet warily.