CHAPTER XXII
Sir James Chide was giving tea to a couple of guests at Lytchett Manor. It was a Saturday in late September. The beech-trees visible through the drawing-room windows were still untouched and heavily green; but their transformation was approaching. Soon, steeped in incredible splendors of orange and gold, they would stand upon the leaf-strewn grass, waiting for the night of rain or the touch of frost which should at last disrobe them.
"If you imagine, Miss Ettie," said Sir James, severely, to a young lady beside him, "that I place the smallest faith in any of Bobbie's remarks or protestations--"
The girl addressed smiled into his face, undaunted. She was a small elfish creature with a thin face, on the slenderest of necks. But in her queer little countenance a pair of laughing eyes, out of all proportion to the rest of her for loveliness and effect, gave her and kept her the attention of the world. They lent distinction--fascination even--to a character of simple virtues and girlish innocence.
Bobbie lounged behind her chair, his arms on the back of it. He took Sir James's attack upon him with calm. "Shall I show him the letter of my beastly chairman?" he said, in the girl's ear.
She nodded, and Bobbie drew from his breast-pocket a folded sheet of blue paper, and pompously handed it to Sir James.
The letter was from the chairman of a leading bank in Berlin--a man well known in European finance. It was couched in very civil terms, and contained the offer to Mr. Robert Forbes of a post in the Lindner bank, as an English correspondence clerk, at a salary in marks which, when translated, meant about £140 a year.
Sir James read it, and handed it back. "Well, what's the meaning of that?"
"I'm giving up the Foreign Office," said Bobbie, an engaging openness of manner. "It's not a proper place for a young man. I've learned nothing there but a game we do with Blue-Books, and things you throw at the ceiling--where they stick--I'll tell you about it presently. Besides, you see, I must have some money, and it don't grow in the Foreign Office for people like me. So I went to my uncle, Lord Forestier--"
"Of course!" growled Sir James. "I thought we should come to the uncles before long. Miss Wilson, I desire to warn you against marrying a young man of 'the classes.' They have no morals, but they have always uncles."