In the first place, as she frankly admitted, the Marquis had spoiled her. She had to confess that he had proved sadly lacking in backbone when brought to the test, but his sternest critics could not deny that “before everything he was a gentleman.”
Mrs. Wren ascribed her own pure taste in manhood to the fact that she had begun her career in the legitimate drama under the ægis of Mr. Painswick at the Theater Royal, Edinburgh. He, too, had been before everything a gentleman. Mr. Painswick had shaped Lydia Mifflin, as she was then, in his own inimitable mold. Upon a day she was to play Grace to his Digby Grant in “The Two Roses.” Then it was, as she had always felt, that she had touched her high-water mark; and the signal occasion was ever afterwards a beacon in her life. From that bright hour the Mr. Painswick standard had regulated the fair Lydia’s survey of the human male. Even the late lamented Mr. H. Blandish Wren, who was without a peer in “straight” comedy, whose Steggles in “London Assurance” had never been surpassed, even that paladin——. Still it isn’t quite fair to give away State secrets!
Mrs. Wren had once said of Charles Cheesewright “that he was not out of the top drawer.” However, if he was not of the caste of Vere de Vere she had to own that “he had points.” He was one of those young men who mean more than they say, who do better than they promise, who clothe their thoughts with actions rather than words. Also, he had two motors—a Daimler and a Rolls-Royce, he had rooms in the Albany, and though perhaps just a little inclined to overdress, he had such a sure taste in jewelry that he took his fiancée once a week to Cartier’s. And beyond everything else, he had the supreme advantage over my lord that he knew his own mind pretty clearly.
In the opinion of Princess Bedalia, Milly was an extremely lucky girl. Her young man was a simple, good fellow, honest as the day, he was incapable of any kind of meanness, he was very rich, and, what was hardly less important, he was very much in love. Milly, however, who had her mother’s knack of seeing men and events objectively, did not yield a final graceful assent until she extorted a promise from Mr. Charles that he would suffer the rape of his mustache, at the best a mere scrub of an affair, and that he would solemnly eschew yellow plush hats which made him look like a piano-tuner.
Still, on this heroic morning, in the middle of July, Mrs. Wren seemed less pleased with the world than she had reason to be. She did some sort of justice to her egg, but she wouldn’t look at the marmalade. If the truth must be told, a rather histrionic mind was still haunted by the shade of the noble Marquis. As Milly, in one of her moments of engaging candor, had told Mary already, as far as her mother was concerned Wrexham had simply queered the pitch for everybody.
Certainly that lady felt it to be her duty to rebuke Mary’s enthusiasm. There was nothing to make a song about. Milly was simply throwing herself away. If everyone had had their rights, she would have been Lady W., with a coronet on her notepaper. As it was, there was really nothing so very wonderful in being the wife of an overdressed tobacconist.
Mary cried “Shame,” and for her pains was sternly admonished. One who has made such hay of her own dazzling matrimonial chances must not venture to say a word. She who might have queened it among the highest in the land merely by substituting the big word “Yes” for the small word “No” must forever hold her peace on this vexed subject. But Mary was in such wild spirits at the announcement in the Morning Post that she refused to be browbeaten. She continued to sing the praises of “Charley” in spite of the clear annoyance of Mrs. Wren. The good lady was unable to realize that the girl was trying with might and main to stifle an ache that was almost intolerable.
“What ho!” Milly suddenly exclaimed, withdrawing a slightly retroussé but decidedly charming nose from Page 5 of the Morning Post, “so they’ve actually made Uncle Jacob a Bart.”
“My dear, you mean a baronet. Who?—made who a baronet?” Mrs. Wren laid down an imperious egg-spoon.
“Jacob Cheesewright, Esquire, M.P. for Bradbury, a rich manufacturer and prominent philanthropist. He’s in the honor list just issued by the King’s government.”