“But Phil-ipp!”
“It’s the truth, Mater. Mrs. Cathcart asks a plain question, and there’s a plain answer. And after all, I’m the chap—”
“Quite so, Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Lady Macbeth, looking almost as wise as the Lord Chief Justice of England as he sits in the Court of Appeal. “This is your affair. You have a right to know your own mind—moreover, you have a right to express it.”
The Braided Morning Coat felt the stronger for this well-timed assistance. It was easy to see from which side of the family Miss Mary had inherited her strong, good sense. A masterful old thing, but she really was helpin’ a lame dog over a stile, wasn’t she?
Blonder and blander grew the Colthurst of Suffolk. It really looked as though it might be a pretty set-to.
“Perhaps Phil-ipp, if you looked into your club for an hour—”
The Green Chartreuse, the horrid coward, wanted to quit the stricken field prematurely. But if he had, as sure as Fate, Mother would have won quite easily. Happily he did not. Mr. Philip stuck to his guns like a Briton, and Grandmamma at least thought none the worse of him for it. The Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall had an opinion of her own on nearly every subject; and the order of which the Braided Morning Coat would one day be an ornament had in her judgment to carry a rather serious penalty; but the old thing in her shrewd old heart—an imperious old thing, too—who had kept pretty good company for eighty-four years or so, was not altogether inclined to accept all the world and his wife at their surface valuation.
“The Family, madam,” said the Colthurst of Suffolk, “is unable to countenance an alliance between my unfortunate son and your granddaughter, who, one is given to understand, is at present engaged in a pantomime. I am, however, empowered by Lord Shelmerdine to offer reparation if such is required.”
These were not the actual words used by Mother. Her style was easier, a little less florid, a trifle more conversational; but manner is said to be more eloquent than matter in the higher diplomacy; thus the foregoing represents more or less accurately the ultimatum of the Governing Classes.
Grandmamma didn’t look pleased; at least not very. The Florid Person was evidently taking herself rather seriously. Let her Beware—that was all—quoth Conscious Strength, amid the inner convolutions of the cap-of-real-lace-that-had-been-worn-by-Siddons.