"It is five minutes to four, sir--it will be quite impossible to finish that pile of papers to-day--And I _did_ come from Bindon's Green--and I am going back there by the six o'clock train from Victoria, to a supper party at my home--That is why my hair is crimped and I have on this new blouse."

He got up and stood quite near her.

"And what will you do at the party? I can't see you there."

"I shall look disagreeable, as I generally do. We shall have supper of cold pressed beef and cold meat-pie, and cheese-cakes and figs and custard, and some light dinner ale or stout, and cups of tea--and then when we have finished that, there are a whole lot of new n.i.g.g.e.r song records for the gramophone, and my brother Bert will recite imitations of Harry Lauder, and my future sister-in-law, Miss Mabel Cawber, will sing 'The Chocolate Soldier' out of tune--We shall make a great deal of noise, and then we shall push the furniture back and dance the turkey trot and the bunny hug, and some of the elder ones, like my sister Matilda, will make up a whist-drive, and at about one o'clock I can get to bed."

"It sounds perfectly ideal; but you return from this to-morrow?"

"Yes--by an early train. I am not a favourite at home. Now will you please begin again to dictate."

He walked up and down the room for a minute; he was not a boy accustomed only to acting from inclination; he knew very well that it would be much wiser now to resume attention to business. So he took up his memoranda and started once more, and for over half an hour nothing but dictation pa.s.sed between them; the pile of papers grew considerably less.

"If you care to give me directions for the rest quickly, I will take them down in shorthand, and then I could finish all this to-morrow, some time. Her Ladyship, I am sure, would be better pleased if her whole scheme is complete."

He agreed--he truly admired her perfect composure and common sense; she was so capable and practical, a person to be relied upon. He would do as she suggested, though he had not heard about dreamland yet.

He set his mind to the affair on hand, and before the clock struck five all was done and ready for this admirable young woman to type when she had leisure. And now he took her hand again.

"A thousand thanks, Egeria," he said. "You ought to discover a likely lad and turn him into the Prime Minister. You would make an ideal Prime Minister's wife--but--er--don't look for him at Bindon's Green!"

"No, I won't--good-night, Mr. Strobridge. Thank you for your wishes--but I have other views. I shall not turn my 'lad' into anything; he shall turn me--"

"Into what?"

"That is still in the lap of the G.o.ds," and she made him the slightest curtsey, and went with a bundle of receipts to the cupboard in the wall, while her grey-green eyes laughed at him over her shoulder.

As Gerard Strobridge walked up the shallow marble steps to his aunt's sitting-room, he felt like a man in a dream.

CHAPTER XI

"What are you thinking of, G.?" Lady Garribardine said, noticing after a little while his preoccupation. "That wretched charity has tired you out, dear boy--I hope Miss Bush was efficient?"

"Quite--" and he lay back in his very comfortable chair and devoured a bit of brown bread and b.u.t.ter. "The whole thing is practically finished.

Your secretary very kindly said she would complete alone the last directions, which she took down in shorthand."

"Then it will be done, G.; she is a young person of her word."

Mr. Strobridge did not become expansive; it was fortunate, he thought, that he had never yet shown any interest in Katherine Bush, because very little escaped his aunt's perceptions.

She was already wondering what caused his absence of mind. He surely was not being so foolish as to have allowed himself to become seriously enamoured of Lao Delemar! Her precious Gerard! This must be ascertained at once.

"Lao telephoned just now that she would not come to the play to-night--Really, the caprices of these pretty women are quite intolerable, throwing one over at a moment's notice--ma.s.ses of selfishness and conceit."

"Yes,--aren't they?" languidly.

This did not sound a lover's disappointment, but perhaps he was prepared for her news, and Lao's proposed absence was what caused his depression.

"What excuse has she given you?"

He looked surprised.

"None. I did not know that she had chucked; did she give any reason?"

"Some nonsense about a friend of her mother's having turned up. I was so annoyed that I put the receiver down."

"You must console me, _carina_," and he leaned forward and took his aunt's fat hand. "Lao would never be missed if a man might count upon you for his partner."

"Flatterer!" but she smiled complacently. "The Colvins can both talk to Tom Hawthorne then. I had intended Henry Colvin to be my portion; he is a bright creature, and distracted me at dinner last week--but I am tired, and I always prefer you, G. Ah! if you had only been my son!"

"It would have destroyed the happiest of relationships in the world--and you know it. A son you could overscold--a mother I could overrespect--Let us thank Heaven for the charming courtesy tie that we enjoy."

"I wish you would have a son, though, G.; you know I am perfectly indifferent to Emmeline's boy."

"I shall never have any Strobridge children, Seraphim. Beatrice would faint at the idea. We only touched upon domestic pretences and got them all over with the very lightest effort in the first week. Besides, one would not want a Thorvil child--there is a mad streak in the whole family, I have often thought. I am much interested in heredity."

He did not add how greatly the afternoon had augmented this interest!

"Yes--did you chance to notice my secretary's hands?--The mother must have had a lover, of course."

"I don't think so--they seldom do in that cla.s.s. They become so intolerably unattractive at once; nothing human could come up to the scratch. It is just a freak, or a harking back--many of the exquisitely aristocratic features one finds in old villagers, for instance, date from the _droit de seigneur_."

"The whole question of heredity is a frightfully serious one, of course, and we are in a stupendous muddle at the present time, with the inroads of the Lord knows who to muddy the stream."

"Do you suppose that is the cause of the dry rot which has got into us?--Or is it that we are really rusting out?"

"It is luxury and humanitarianism, and absence of national foes, which have sent us to sleep--and forgetfulness of dignity and duty. We eat the food of those whose fathers fed in our fathers' kitchens, and not because they are worthy and nice--that would be quite justifiable if so--but just because they are rich and have a superb chef, or because they are giving our younger sons a lift in the city--I loathe all money-making and trade--I am thankful that I, at least, can stand on my own feet, though I see the sad decadence in all around me--But I must not talk like this; it depresses and ages me!--By the way, Sterling had the impertinence to tell me that she thought my new toupees from Paris are too light!--What do you say, G.?"

He looked at her critically, at the clever, shrewd, painted old face and the ridiculous girlish wig--and then he kissed her hand again, and told her the truth. Something about her words touched him infinitely.

"I adore very dark hair when it is going grey, Seraphim. I have often thought how beautiful you would be if you burnt all those things. Your sense of humour is so supreme, they always seem incongruous."

"I will, then, this very New Year, while we are at Blissington. It will be the sensation when we return to town. Sarah Lady Garribardine with snow-white hair!"

"No, iron grey. It will make your eyes brighter."

"It shall be done!" Then she laughed softly. "G., how goes it with Lao--you are not in love?"

Mr. Strobridge shook his head regretfully.

"Alas! not an atom. I fear it won't last until the Easter recess."

"She is artificial."