“We have engaged a different entertainer,” he replied evasively.
“But, you see,” I said, with my heart in my mouth, which had need of something more edible, “your telegram this morning told me to come, so my evening is lost. As I am here, suppose I go up and do what I can. As to my fee—oh, I’m quite willing to leave that to his lordship.”
“I told him many stories hoping he would not notice my appetite.”
Just then I heard his lordship’s voice saying, “Come in, Mr. Wilder.” He seemed to have grasped the situation, and with the tact and courtesy which is never lacking in English gentlemen, he quickly made me feel entirely at ease. He also offered me refreshments, and as I had not dined, I gladly accepted. That I might not be alone at table, he kindly waited with me. I told him many stories, hoping he would not notice my appetite, but I noticed it myself so persistently that I felt that his every glance said distinctly:
“You poor little devil, how hungry you are!”
But I persisted; I was conscious of a need to be well fortified, for I had heard all sorts of stories about entertaining at social functions in England—stories of arrays of old ladies in low-necked gowns displaying more bones than beauty,—of a subdued patter of gloved hands in place of real applause—of “the stony British stare,” which, really, is never encountered in society, so I felt like a soldier about to face fearful odds. I was so wrought upon by my fears that when I did appear it seemed to me that there was not in that great drawing-room a single sympathetic face at which I might play; all appeared to wear an expression which said:
“Now, then;—make us laugh if you can.”
I began to feel as if I was looking into the rear end of an ice wagon, but suddenly my eye found a man’s face which filled me with courage—a face full of kindness, humor and sympathy. It seemed to say: