It was the nursemaid who did the mischief, since, in one sense, it must certainly be termed mischief. It all arose from an ill-advised remark. Possibly exasperation caused it. We’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. It is true that Biddy being, at the moment, a victim to severe toothache, extra work had been laid on Louisa’s shoulders. Had Biddy been present, you may be very sure that the remark had not been made.
Antony had taken the loss of his title calmly. This was hardly surprising. After all, it made extraordinarily little difference. It was seldom that he heard it, and then only from the lips of comparative strangers. “The little master,” was infinitely more familiar to him, and there was still no earthly reason for changing that mode of address. The prospect of a new home was also taken philosophically; there was, indeed, a certain amount of excitement about it.
But one Friday morning—to be accurate, it was the very morning of the somewhat momentous conversation recently referred to—further enquiry entered his mind.
“If I aren’t Sir Antony, what are I?” he demanded of a busy nursemaid.
“Nobody particular,” replied Louisa, who, hunting for some mislaid article, had no mind to give to problems.
Antony demurred.
“I must be somebody,” he argued.
“Everybody is somebody,” retorted Louisa, “but it don’t mean they’re anybody of importance.”
Antony pricked up his ears.
“What’s importance?” he demanded.