“Very good,” observed Barfleur, rubbing his hands. “Now that is settled.”
“Isn’t she charming,” observed Mrs. G. A. Barfleur, “to be so politely disposed?”
Thereafter the dinner could not come too soon, and by two-thirty we were ready to depart, having consumed Heaven knows how many kinds of wines and meats, English plum-pudding, and—especially for me—real German Limburger. It was a splendid dinner.
Shall I stop to describe it? I cannot say, outside of the interesting English company, that it was any better or any worse than many another Christmas feast in which I have participated. Imagine the English dining-room, the English maid, the housekeeper in watchful attendance on the children, the maid, like a bit of Dresden china, on guard over the service, Barfleur, monocle in eye, sitting solemnly in state at the head of the board, Lord Scorp, T. McT., Gerard Barfleur, his mother, her daughter, myself, the children all chattering and gobbling. The high-sounding English voices, the balanced English phrases, the quaint English scene through the windows,—it all comes back, a bit of sweet color. Was I happy? Very. Did I enjoy myself? Quite. But as to this other matter.
It was a splendid afternoon. On the way over, Barfleur and myself, the others refusing contemptuously to have anything to do with this sentimental affair, had the full story of our lady of the donkey and her sister and the two brothers that they married.
We turned eventually into one of those charming lawns enclosed by a high, concealing English fence, and up a graveled automobile path to a snow-white Georgian door. We were admitted to a hall that at once bore out the testimony as to the athletic prowess of the husbands twain. There were guns, knives, golf-sticks, tennis rackets, automobile togs and swords. I think there were deer and fox heads in the bargain. By a ruddy, sportsmanlike man of perhaps thirty-eight, and all of six feet tall, who now appeared, we were invited to enter, make ourselves at home, drink what we would, whiskey, sherry, ale—a suitable list. We declined the drink, putting up fur coats and sticks and were immediately asked into the billiard room where the Christmas tree and other festivities were holding,—or about to be. Here, at last there were my lady of the donkey and the child and the maid and my lady’s sister and alas, my lady’s husband, full six feet tall and vigorous and, of all tragic things, fingering a forty-caliber, sixteen-shot magazine pistol which his beloved brother of sporting proclivities had given him as a Christmas present! I eyed it as one might a special dispensation of Providence.
But our lady of the donkey? A very charming woman she proved, intelligent, smiling, very chic, quite aware of all the nice things that had been said about her, very clever in making light of it for propriety’s sake, unwilling to have anything made of it for the present for her husband’s sake. But that Anglicized French air! And that romantic smile!
We talked—of what do people talk on such occasions? Gerard was full of the gayest references to the fact that Barfleur had such interesting neighbors as the Churchills and did not know it, and that they had once motored to Blackpool together. I shall not forget either how artfully Barfleur conveyed to Mrs. Barton Churchill, our lady of the donkey, that I had been intensely taken with her looks while at the same time presenting himself in the best possible light. Barfleur is always at his best on such occasions, Chesterfieldian, and with an air that says, “A mere protegee of mine. Do not forget the managerial skill that is making this interesting encounter possible.” But Mrs. Churchill, as I could see, was not utterly unmindful of the fact that I was the one that had been heralded to her as a writer, and that I had made the great fuss and said all the nice things about her after a single encounter on a country road which had brought about this afternoon visit. She was gracious, and ordered the Christmas tree lighted and had the young heir’s most interesting toys spread out on the billiard table. I remember picking up a linen story book, labeled Loughlin Bros., New York.
“From America,” I said, quite unwisely I think.
“Oh, yes, you Americans,” she replied, eyeing me archly. “Everything comes from America these days, even our toys. But it’s rather ungracious to make us admit it, don’t you think?”