“Mornin’, Sally.”
Position turned its back and put its elbows on the counter. It might have been the sole proprietor, not only of those most desirable lock-up basement premises, but of Miss Pearson and all its other contents. Still, no reproof was forthcoming.
During an even earlier phase of Position’s adolescence, it had been Mr. Shelmerdine’s privilege as a member of the Eleven, a member of Pop, and of other high dignities, to lay into Position in no uncertain manner. Alas that his zeal had proved so unfruitful!
Autres temps, autres mœurs. Had we the pen of the sage, the fervor of the poet, the sæva indignatio of the preacher, what a theme is here, my lords and gentlemen! Position not only usurping the badge of intimacy, reserved for the peers of the Keeper of the Field, but actually venturing to take pas of him, addressing Miss Pearson by her first name, setting his elbows on the counter, and removing a bunch of violets from her ample bosom, while he—the unspeakable humiliation of it—actually had to wait meekly for his own.
Had there been a toasting fork within the precincts of those desirable lock-up basement premises, it is appalling to think of the consequences that might have ensued.
Miss Pearson handed Mr. Shelmerdine his bunch of violets in a manner sufficiently dégagé, as though her interest in him had assumed a less acute phase. Raging within, the heir to the barony, a mere 1905 creation, sought the purer air of the Ritz Arcade, leaving the field to 1720, who could be heard saluting Sally not too chastely, as his early benefactor hurriedly crossed the threshold of his favorite florist’s, and came into somewhat forcible collision with an elderly, but ample lady from Missouri, who was on a visit to Europe, and who had come to stay at the Ritz Hotel.
The elderly ample lady from Missouri was fluent in her diction; the heir to the barony was abject in his apologies; but eventually the incident was closed by the unlucky young man escorting the American citizeness to her palatial temporary residence, and giving her into the care of the hall porter.
Evidently, it was not going to be his day. But let justice be done to the Fates, even when they are behaving just about as badly as they know how. Had it not been that the heir to the barony lingered a moment to exchange a few brief but urbane civilities with the hall porter of the Ritz, he must inevitably have walked into Adela and her Pa who were passing very slowly and impressively by the portals of this coign of the plutocracy.
It was a hair’s-breadth escape. The young man had only just time to realize his danger, bolt across the road, almost under the very wheels of an oncoming Barnes and Hammersmith omnibus, escape a threefold death by violence at the instance of the passing motor, board a taxi, and in a voice tense with emotion beseech to be driven to Romano’s.
A gin and vermouth might be said to have saved this full but chequered life.