"Veal," said he. "A jolly name. I knew it had something to do with dinner."
"Miss Veal is my fiancée," said I sternly.
"Lucky fel-lah," said he; "jolly lucky. I lunch there to-morrow."
Lucky! At that moment I was the most unhappy man in all the world. I saw myself at the mercy of this great Englishman; I saw myself going the way of Plumstone Smith; I saw slipping from my grasp, not four millions, but Pearl. Strange as it may seem, I have never given a thought for her money. I know no one will believe it, but nevertheless it is true. To sit quietly with her is happiness. She is altogether lovely in her eyes, in her color, in the roundness of her face, and the fulness of her form. Mere talk is the complement that makes plainness attractive. Pearl Veal seldom talks. She smiles. She smokes. And when the gray clouds float around her she is like a charming sunset. People say she is brainless. When I want learning I can find it in books; when I want wit, I can read my Richardson and Lamb. I am not blind. Beauty feasts my eye. To delight me it only has to smile. Pearl and I are boon companions. She says she finds real contentment in my company; I do not bore her with chatter about stocks and real estate, about novels and plays, about tennis and bridge; I just smoke and smile; my clothes fit so very well and my taste in ties appeals to her. Then, when the air is clear and crisp, when the sunlight kaleidoscopes the avenue and its many-colored fronts, when all the town seems to be afoot or awheel, we find it rare sport to escape Mrs. Radigan and go tearing along together, speaking to those we ought not to speak to, and leaving unspoken to those to whom we should speak, to hail Mignonette Klapper and Estelle Beerberger, Green, and the fellows of my old boarding-house. Sometimes, in more serious mood, we turn into Madison, the avenue of sentiment, the thoroughfare along which the young and thoughtless wander into matrimony. Sometimes Pearl becomes cynical. Sometimes she rails. She wonders whether it really pays to be so smart as we have become under Mrs. Radigan's generalship. Then it is that I know that she has brains.
Are these days over? I am looking to the future with dread. Few women, however noble, can refuse a Duke. When the opportunity comes they deem it a sacred duty to mend the roofs of historic castles. I feel that my fate lies entirely with his Grace. Will he take Miss Bumpschus and her ten millions, or Pearl Veal with her four? I await his decision. He had luncheon with the Radigans yesterday. To-morrow he dines there with Prince Cosmospopolis, the Poglioso Spinniginis, and other local nobles. A few days will decide all.
A Problem for the Duke
Poor Nocastle! His Grace seems to have a problem to solve that is beyond his intellectuality. Here stands Ethel Bumpschus, with spectacles and ten millions; there Pearl Veal, beautiful, with but four. Which will he choose? And surely he has only to choose, for he is a peer of England. He is only five feet four, partially bald, pale, fuzzy mustache upside down, but then, besides, he is Charles John Peter Michael Henry Edwin Reginald Clarence Angus Joseph Fitznit, Duke of Nocastle, Marquis of Bumpshire, Earl of Duckham, Baron Llfygntynllan, Baron McGonigle in Ireland, etc. He has been here nearly two weeks now, turning the Bumpschus house upside down, and yet his engagement to its heiress has not been announced. Town Twaddle cruelly reported that there had been a hitch over the settlements, that his solicitor had been cabled for, and that pending the arrival of Sir Charles Wigge no announcements would be made. But I know better. The hitch came that afternoon at the Bumpschuses when the noble eyes lighted on Pearl Veal, as she stood beside Mrs. Radigan, smiling. Since then his Grace has haunted the Radigan house, and when he is not loafing in the shadow of its mistress, he is sitting on a bench in the Park Mall, seeking an inspiration in the bust of Robert Burns. Time is flying. He will have to decide soon, for he has bought a brace of bull pups and the fancier is standing all day in the Bumpschus hall, respectfully waiting for his money.