“Why? Why? Because it is absolutely necessary that the Massarenes should be seen at Otterbourne House—seen at my ball! The refusal is an insult to me! Your father is a hundred years out of date. The country is practically a republic; we shall all have our lands taken from us before long and parcelled out to Jack and Jill. It is ridiculous to be stiff-necked about knowing people. All stiffness of that sort went out when the Hanoverian line came in. What’s half the peerage? Titled tradesmen. They have got Richemont. Could your father afford Richemont? There’s only one aristocracy now left; it’s Money. When I have been getting them everywhere, and everybody so kind about it, what shall I look to people when I don’t have them at my own ball? Your father has no consideration for me; he never has. Put it as a personal favor to myself, and you see what he answers—within a week of the ball!”
Cocky listened quietly, because it was diverting to see his wife so displeased and to hear her so incoherent. He liked her to be “in a wax”; he hated to think things went as smoothly as they usually did go with her; but he saw the gravity of the dilemma. If Otterbourne would not have the Massarenes, then he and she would be like the farm-girl of fable—“Adieu, veau vache cochons canvée!” There might even ensue inquiries from high places, and rebuffs which even the talent of Richemont would not avert. Cocky, to whom the talent of Richemont was agreeable (he lunched and dined whenever he chose at Harrenden House), and more agreeable the master of Richemont (who accepted his signature as if it were Rothschild’s), saw that this was one of those exceptional occasions on which he would do better for himself to side with the mother of the four little poppets upstairs.
“I’ll see pater about the thing if you’re so set on it,” he said, with unusual amiability.
“Can you do anything?” she said doubtfully and sullenly.
“Well, I don’t know. I’ll tell him Billy’s reforming me—making an honest man of me in Fleet Street, and that he’ll damage me if he shuts his doors on the beggars. Perhaps he’ll believe it, perhaps he won’t; I’ll try.”
“I’ve sent them their cards; tell him so.”
“That wouldn’t move him a jot; but when I do the eldest son rather well, and make believe to see the errors of my ways, I can get a thing or two out of Poodle—sometimes. After all——”
After all, thought Cocky, there had been days, though it seemed odd enough to think so now, when he had been a clean and pretty little child jumping up on to his father’s knee. The duke thought of those far-away days oftener than he did, and Cocky was never ashamed to exploiter the remembrance to base ends.
“Go at once, then,” said his wife ungraciously.
Cocky nodded. But when he had reached the door he looked back between the curtains, a rather diabolic grin upon his thin fair features.