“Who is she?” asked Mrs. Mussard sharply.
“I’m not quite sure,” said Valcourt, his tourmaline eyes narrowing as he smiled his angelic smile. “Dutch Jewess, perhaps,” he added simply, “with barrels of bullion and a family all nose.”
“Horrible!” cried Mrs. Mussard, shuddering.
“Her brother’s in the Fifth,” let out Valcourt. “We call him ‘Hooky Holland.’ Their father was secretary to the Klaproths and made heaps of cash—‘cath’ Hooky calls it. He never talks about anything but ‘cath,’ and fellows punch him for it.” Valcourt doubled his right hand scientifically, thumb well down, and glanced at it with modest appreciation ere he resumed: “He has lots of it, too, Hooky, and lends at interest—pretty thick interest—to fellows who get broke at Bridge or baccarat!”
“Oh-h! You don’t play baccarat at school, surely! Such an awfully gambling game!” expostulated Valcourt’s hostess.
“We go to school to be educated, you see,” said Valcourt, in a slightly argumentative tone, “for what Buntham calls ‘the business of life,’ and cards are part of a fellow’s life, aren’t they? So they ought, instead of being forbidden, to form part of what Old Cads calls the curriculum. We call Buntham ‘Cads’ because he calls us cads when we do anything that upsets him. He’s a nervous beggar, and gets a good deal of upsetting. My dame says he weighs himself at the end of every term, and makes a note of the pounds he’s lost since the beginning. When I go to Sandhurst she thinks he’ll pick up a bit,” explained Valcourt with his angelic grin.
“I hope your dame is a nice, motherly old person!” breathed Mrs. Mussard.
“She’s nice—quite,” said Valcourt, “and awfully obliging. I don’t know about being old—unless you’d call thirty-three old.” Mrs. Mussard started slightly. “When I have a cold she makes me jellies and things. Awfully good things! And I give her concert tickets, and sometimes we go on the river and have strawberries and cream. Lots of our fellows tell her their love affairs.”
“Do you?”
“And some of ’em are in love with her,” went on Valcourt.