heard the news of the breaking-off of the engagement. Evidently,
however, McEachern had not. This was a nuisance. The idea of flight
came to Spennie, but he dismissed it. As nominal host that night, he
had to dance many duty-dances. This would be his only chance of a
smoke for hours, and the billiard-room was the best place for it.
He sat down, and lighted a cigarette, casting about the while for an
innocuous topic of conversation.
“Like the show?” he inquired.
“Fine,” said Mr. McEachern. “By the way–”
Spennie groaned inwardly. He had forgotten that a determined man can
change the conversation to any subject he pleases by means of those
three words.
“By the way,” said Mr. McEachern, “I thought Sir Thomas–wasn’t your
uncle intending to announce–?”
“Well, yes, he was,” said Spennie.
“Going to do it during the dancing, maybe?”
“Well–er–no. The fact is, he’s not going to do it at all, don’t
you know.” Spennie inspected the red end of his cigarette closely.
“As a matter of fact, it’s kind of broken off.”
The other’s exclamation jarred on him. Rotten, having to talk about
this sort of thing!
“Broken off?”
Spennie nodded.
“Miss McEachern thought it over, don’t you know,” he said, “and came
to the conclusion that it wasn’t good enough.”
Now that it was said, he felt easier. It had merely been the
awkwardness of having to touch on the thing that had troubled him.
That his news might be a blow to McEachern did not cross his mind.
He was a singularly modest youth, and, though he realized vaguely
that his title had a certain value in some persons’ eyes, he could
not understand anyone mourning over the loss of him as a son-in-law.
Katie’s father, the old general, thought him a fool, and once,
during an attack of gout, had said so. Spennie was wont to accept
this as the view which a prospective father-in-law might be expected
to entertain regarding himself.
Oblivious, therefore, to the storm raging a yard away from him, he
smoked on with great contentment, till suddenly it struck him that,
for a presumably devout lover, jilted that very night, he was
displaying too little emotion. He debated swiftly within himself
whether or not he should have a dash at manly grief, but came to the
conclusion that it could not be done. Melancholy on this maddest,
merriest day of all the glad New Year, the day on which he had
utterly routed the powers of evil, as represented by Sir Thomas, was
impossible. He decided, rather, on a let-us-be-reasonable attitude.
“It wouldn’t have done, don’t you know,” he said. “We weren’t
suited. What I mean to say is, I’m a bit of a dashed sort of silly
ass in some ways, if you know what I mean. A girl like Miss
McEachern couldn’t have been happy with me. She wants one of these
capable, energetic fellers.”
This struck him as a good beginning–modest, but not groveling. He
continued, tapping quite a respectably deep vein of philosophy as he
spoke.
“You see, dear old top–I mean, sir, you see, it’s like this. As far
as women are concerned, fellers are divided into two classes.
There’s the masterful, capable Johnnies, and the–er–the other
sort. Now, I’m the other sort. My idea of the happy married life is
to be–well, not exactly downtrodden, but–you know what I mean–
kind of second fiddle. I want a wife–” his voice grew soft and
dreamy–“who’ll pet me a good deal, don’t you know, stroke my hair a
lot, and all that. I haven’t it in me to do the master-in-my-own-
house business. For me, the silent-devotion touch. Sleeping on the
mat outside her door, don’t you know, when she wasn’t feeling well,
and being found there in the morning and being rather cosseted for
my thoughtfulness. That’s the sort of idea. Hard to put it quite O.
K., but you know the sort of thing I mean. A feller’s got to realize
his jolly old limitations if he wants to be happy though married,
what? Now, suppose Miss McEachern was to marry me! Great Scott,
she’d be bored to death in a week. Honest! She couldn’t help