The only thing that had drawn them up from the sylvan shades of Ticehurst Park was this—they wanted to be near Greatorex, that they could know what was happening to Guy at first hand.
The eldest son of the house. Viscount Ticehurst, dropped in occasionally, and deigned to spare them a few moments of his valuable time. As a matter of fact, at the present moment he was occupied with a particularly pretty chorus-girl, whom he was half inclined to marry.
Mary was fond of both her brothers, but she recognised the difference in them. Eric was as weak as water and destitute of brains. He was capable of marrying any chorus-girl on the sly, and then rushing her down home and presenting her as his wife, to the terrible consternation of his poor old father, who thought that people should always marry in their own class.
Guy was different—there was just a little bit of common sense in him. He had fallen violently in love with Isobel Clandon—a girl not quite in his own world, from the Earl’s point of view—but a sweet and lovable girl, and above all a lady.
And Guy had waited for the parental consent, which had been wrung under somewhat false pretences. But he had been content to wait until his future wife would be received under proper auspices. He would not rush her down and take his father by storm, as Ticehurst would do when the time came for him to present his chorus-girl to a justly offended parent.
Father and daughter sat at luncheon in the dining-room of the house in Belgrave Square.
Very terribly did Lady Mary miss her beautiful gardens, her flowers, her dogs, her aviary of little songsters. She was essentially a country girl. She hated any city, with its cramped and narrow streets. Even Paris had no attractions for her. Vienna and Berlin left her cold.
“You have seen Greatorex this morning, father?” she questioned when the servants had withdrawn.
Lord Saxham frowned. He had realised, in this his latest visit to the Metropolis, that he was a back number. He remembered the years long ago when he was the most golden of the gilded youth. Then his name was one to conjure with. He led the revels; if it pleased him, he painted the town red. Now, except for a few ancient cronies, nobody recognised him.
“Yes, I saw Greatorex,” he answered gloomily. “He was always as close as wax. He is closer than ever. He comes of an infernally close family. That family has never been anything great.” He was getting into his explosive vein. “Always underlings and jackals—always content to serve.”