“I have not stood at the stage-door for twenty-five years,” said Lord Marshmoreton sadly.
“Now, it’s no use your pulling that Henry W. Methuselah stuff,” said Billie affectionately. “You can’t get away with it. Anyone can see you’re just a kid. Can’t they, George?” She indicated the blushing earl with a wave of the hand. “Isn’t dadda the youngest thing that ever happened?”
“Exactly what I told him myself.”
Lord Marshmoreton giggled. There is no other verb that describes the sound that proceeded from him.
“I feel young,” he admitted.
“I wish some of the juveniles in the shows I’ve been in,” said Billie, “were as young as you. It’s getting so nowadays that one’s thankful if a juvenile has teeth.” She glanced across the room. “Your pals are walking out on you, George. The people you were lunching with,” she explained. “They’re leaving.”
“That’s all right. I said good-bye to them.” He looked at Lord Marshmoreton. It seemed a suitable opportunity to break the news. “I was lunching with Mr. and Mrs. Byng,” he said.
Nothing appeared to stir beneath Lord Marshmoreton’s tanned forehead.
“Reggie Byng and his wife, Lord Marshmoreton,” added George.
This time he secured the earl’s interest. Lord Marshmoreton started.
“What!”
“They are just off to Paris,” said George.
“Reggie Byng is not married!”
“Married this morning. I was best man.”
“Busy little creature!” interjected Billie.
“But–but–!”
“You know his wife,” said George casually. “She was a Miss Faraday. I think she was your secretary.”
It would have been impossible to deny that Lord Marshmoreton showed emotion. His mouth opened, and he clutched the tablecloth. But just what the emotion was George was unable to say till, with a sigh that seemed to come from his innermost being, the other exclaimed “Thank Heaven!”
George was surprised.
“You’re glad?”
“Of course I’m glad!”
“It’s a pity they didn’t know how you were going to feel. It would have saved them a lot of anxiety. I rather gathered they supposed that the shock was apt to darken your whole life.”
“That girl,” said Lord Marshmoreton vehemently, “was driving me crazy. Always bothering me to come and work on that damned family history. Never gave me a moment’s peace…”
“I liked her,” said George.
“Nice enough girl,” admitted his lordship grudgingly. “But a damned nuisance about the house; always at me to go on with the family history. As if there weren’t better things to do with one’s time than writing all day about my infernal fools of ancestors!”
“Isn’t dadda fractious today?” said Billie reprovingly, giving the Earl’s hand a pat. “Quit knocking your ancestors! You’re very lucky to have ancestors. I wish I had. The Dore family seems to go back about as far as the presidency of Willard Filmore, and then it kind of gets discouraged and quite cold. Gee! I’d like to feel that my great-great-great-grandmother had helped Queen Elizabeth with the rent. I’m strong for the fine old stately families of England.”
“Stately old fiddlesticks!” snapped the earl.
“Did you see his eyes flash then, George? That’s what they call aristocratic rage. It’s the fine old spirit of the Marshmoretons boiling over.”
“I noticed it,” said George. “Just like lightning.”
“It’s no use trying to fool us, dadda,” said Billie. “You know just as well as I do that it makes you feel good to think that, every time you cut yourself with your safety-razor, you bleed blue!”
“A lot of silly nonsense!” grumbled the earl.
“What is?”
“This foolery of titles and aristocracy. Silly fetish-worship! One man’s as good as another….”
“This is the spirit of ’76!” said George approvingly.
“Regular I.W.W. stuff,” agreed Billie. “Shake hands the President of the Bolsheviki!”
Lord Marshmoreton ignored the interruption. There was a strange look in his eyes. It was evident to George, watching him with close interest, that here was a revelation of the man’s soul; that thoughts, locked away for years in the other’s bosom were crying for utterance.
“Damned silly nonsense! When I was a boy, I wanted to be an engine-driver. When I was a young man, I was a Socialist and hadn’t any idea except to work for my living and make a name for myself. I was going to the colonies. Canada. The fruit farm was actually bought. Bought and paid for!” He brooded a moment on that long-lost fruit farm. “My father was a younger son. And then my uncle must go and break his neck hunting, and the baby, poor little chap, got croup or something… And there I was, saddled with the title, and all my plans gone up in smoke… Silly nonsense! Silly nonsense!”