“My sainted aunt!”
“What’s the matter?”
Both his companions were looking past him, wide-eyed. George occupied the chair that had its back to the door, and was unable to see what it was that had caused their consternation; but he deduced that someone known to both of them must have entered the restaurant; and his first thought, perhaps naturally, was that it must be Reggie’s “mater”. Reggie dived behind a menu, which he held before him like a shield, and his bride, after one quick look, had turned away so that her face was hidden. George swung around, but the newcomer, whoever he or she was, was now seated and indistinguishable from the rest of the lunchers.
“Who is it?”
Reggie laid down the menu with the air of one who after a momentary panic rallies.
“Don’t know what I’m making such a fuss about,” he said stoutly. “I keep forgetting that none of these blighters really matter in the scheme of things. I’ve a good mind to go over and pass the time of day.”
“Don’t!” pleaded his wife. “I feel so guilty.”
“Who is it?” asked George again. “Your step-mother?”
“Great Scott, no!” said Reggie. “Nothing so bad as that. It’s old Marshmoreton.”
“Lord Marshmoreton!”
“Absolutely! And looking positively festive.”
“I feel so awful, Mr. Bevan,” said Alice. “You know, I left the castle without a word to anyone, and he doesn’t know yet that there won’t be any secretary waiting for him when he gets back.”
Reggie took another look over George’s shoulder and chuckled.
“It’s all right, darling. Don’t worry. We can nip off secretly by the other door. He’s not going to stop us. He’s got a girl with him! The old boy has come to life–absolutely! He’s gassing away sixteen to the dozen to a frightfully pretty girl with gold hair. If you slew the old bean round at an angle of about forty-five, Bevan, old top, you can see her. Take a look. He won’t see you. He’s got his back to us.”
“Do you call her pretty?” asked Alice disparagingly.
“Now that I take a good look, precious,” replied Reggie with alacrity, “no! Absolutely not! Not my style at all!”
His wife crumbled bread.
“I think she must know you, Reggie dear,” she said softly. “She’s waving to you.”
“She’s waving to ME,” said George, bringing back the sunshine to Reggie’s life, and causing the latter’s face to lose its hunted look. “I know her very well. Her name’s Dore. Billie Dore.”
“Old man,” said Reggie, “be a good fellow and slide over to their table and cover our retreat. I know there’s nothing to be afraid of really, but I simply can’t face the old boy.”
“And break the news to him that I’ve gone, Mr. Bevan,” added Alice.
“Very well, I’ll say good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Bevan, and thank you ever so much.”
Reggie shook George’s hand warmly.
“Good-bye, Bevan old thing, you’re a ripper. I can’t tell you how bucked up I am at the sportsmanlike way you’ve rallied round. I’ll do the same for you one of these days. Just hold the old boy in play for a minute or two while we leg it. And, if he wants us, tell him our address till further notice is Paris. What ho! What ho! What ho! Toodle-oo, laddie, toodle-oo!”
George threaded his way across the room. Billie Dore welcomed him with a friendly smile. The earl, who had turned to observe his progress, seemed less delighted to see him. His weather-beaten face wore an almost furtive look. He reminded George of a schoolboy who has been caught in some breach of the law.
“Fancy seeing you here, George!” said Billie. “We’re always meeting, aren’t we? How did you come to separate yourself from the pigs and chickens? I thought you were never going to leave them.”
“I had to run up on business,” explained George. “How are you, Lord Marshmoreton?”
The earl nodded briefly.
“So you’re on to him, too?” said Billie. “When did you get wise?”
“Lord Marshmoreton was kind enough to call on me the other morning and drop the incognito.”
“Isn’t dadda the foxiest old thing!” said Billie delightedly. “Imagine him standing there that day in the garden, kidding us along like that! I tell you, when they brought me his card last night after the first act and I went down to take a slant at this Lord Marshmoreton and found dadda hanging round the stage door, you could have knocked me over with a whisk-broom.”