When at last they parted, the chairmen compelled to it by the necessity to be back at their post by seven o’clock, it was with voluble protestations of friendship on the part of Holles. He must come and see them soon again, he vowed. They were fellows after his own heart, he assured them. Eagerly they returned the compliment, and, as they made their way back to the theatre, they laughed not a little over the empty vanity of that silly pigeon, and their own wit and cleverness in having fooled him to the top of his ridiculous bent.
It might have given their hilarity pause could they have seen the grimly cunning smile that curled the lips of that same silly pigeon as he trudged away from the scene of their blithe encounter.
On the following evening—which was that of Saturday—you behold him there again, at about the same hour, joyously hailed by Miss Farquharson’s chairmen in a manner impudently blending greeting with derision.
“Good-evening, Sir John,” cried one, and, “Good-evening, my lord,” the other.
The Colonel, whose swaggering carriage was suggestive of a mild intoxication, planted his feet wide, and regarded the twain owlishly.
“I am not Sir John, and I am not my lord,” he reproved them, whereupon they laughed. “Though, mark you,” he added, more ponderously, “mark you, I might be both if I had my dues. There’s many a Whitehall pimp is my lord with less claim to the dignity than I have. Aye, a deal less.”
“Any fool can see that to look at you,” said Jake.
“Aye—any fool,” said Nathaniel, sardonic and ambiguous.
The Colonel evidently chose the meaning that was flattering to himself.