"Oh, it's all right with me, but in the morning she'll probably bounce the whole lot of us. An old lady fatigued from a journey cross country and shot at on her own premises—it's a very pretty story."
They were a picturesque lot, the ancient waiters and bell-hops grouped about Antoine with their lanterns and garden implements and firearms. Antoine was swallowing hard in his effort to continue his recital.
"You say an old lady, sir; the mistress is not really what you would call so old—not exactly, sir."
"Really a youngish party, I should say," volunteered Graves, the gardener.
Just what these veterans would call old was a matter of conjecture. "Um," I murmured, and considered the situation.
"Young or old, she would hardly relish her reception. There was a maid, and they came in a machine? Did you put up the chauffeur or did you shoot him on the spot?"
"It was a hired machine, sir; and madame sent it away. The driver was a good deal upset over the shooting. One of the rear tires was quite blown away."
"You're in luck if he doesn't have you all arrested to-morrow," I remarked consolingly.
"Mrs. Bashford seemed quite amused by the occurrence," Antoine continued. "'Wonderful America!' she kept saying after we'd got her inside. We gave her tea, which was all she asked for. She takes her tea with cream, sir. We did our best to make her comfortable. And there was a dog, sir. I recall that the master was not fond of dogs. There was never one on the place."
Antoine spoke truly; if there was anything my Uncle Bash detested it was a dog, but I reflected that a world-skipping widow who could corral so difficult a subject as my uncle would be quite capable of inspiring him with delight in the canine species. My respect for the woman's powers of persuasion was intensified by this disclosure.