"I really had forgotten," exclaimed the poor marquis, turning very red, "I'm glad you reminded me, my dear."
"And Friday's the day you promised to take Hector to have his picture taken. I couldn't think of trusting my precious poodle to a heartless footman."
"Quite true," said the marquis, turning pale, "but Saturday, my pet—"
"Saturday!" exclaimed Theodora, "I have no end of things for you to do, dearest. I want you to fetch Major Philibeg over from the barracks in your trap, and Sunday you must go to church, you know, dear love."
"Certainly, my own," meekly responded the once redoubtable man who had killed three wives. At this William McBean suddenly darted out of the room, and was found half an hour afterward haw-hawing in the smoking-room. The spectacle of the British lion with his tail between his legs seemed to afford William rapturous amusement.
The Marsh meadow was drawn the next day, but the marquis, transformed from a lion into a lamb, was not among the huntsmen. After performing all of Theodora's errands, he was allowed, as a treat, a game of tennis with the chaplain of the castle—for this young American marchioness not only had her private chaplain, but would have had her private archbishop if she could have had her way, so naturally did she take to her privileged class. She "my loved" and "my deared" the marquis at a great rate, but Hercules spinning flax was a picture of manliness alongside of him. Anne's kind heart disposed her to take his part somewhat, but William McBean, who chuckled incessantly at the state of affairs, encouraged Theodora to lay on like Macduff. The marquis was made to wear goloshes whenever he went out, his cigars were docked, and at midnight, just as the fun grew fast and furious in the smoking-room, Theodora's own footman would tap at the door, and the marquis, with a feeble pretense of "coming back after a while" would disappear. He never came back though. William McBean, who was the life and soul of the smoking-room, would make this hypocritical promise of the marquis's return an excuse for keeping up a rollicking good time until unearthly hours of the morning, when the last cigar would be smoked, the last story told, the last punch brewed.
Wherever Theodora moved she was accompanied by a suite, consisting of the marquis, the chaplain, the footman, and the poodle—and of these, the one most under her thumb was the once terrible Sir John Blood, whom his own mother would scarcely have recognized, so wonderfully had his American wife changed, or as Theodora expressed it, reformed him.
On the Sunday, a respectable contingent was mustered for service in the castle chapel. The marquis complained of a cold, but was nevertheless present at both morning and evening service, by the side of Theodora, who had her poodle on the other side.
Toward twilight Mrs. Wodehouse peeped into the little morning room used by Theodora. By the dusky light she saw her seated at the cottage piano. She was playing chords softly, while the poor marquis, sitting by her with his throat wrapped up in flannels was warbling in a hoarse voice but with much piety: