“In the heat of the moment,” confessed Mr Pilkington, “I’m afraid I said things to Miss Mariner which I now regret.”
Uncle Chris began to feel on solid ground again.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured regretfully.
“I spoke hastily.”
“Always think before you speak, my boy.”
“I considered that I had been cheated —”
“My dear boy!” Uncle Chris’ blue eyes opened wide. “Please! Haven’t I said that I could explain all that? It was a pure misunderstanding —”
“Oh, I don’t care about that part of it —”
“Quite right,” said Uncle Chris cordially. “Let bygones be bygones. Start with a clean slate. You have your money back, and there’s no need to say another word about it. Let us forget it,” he concluded generously. “And, if I have any influence with Jill, you may count on me to use it to dissipate any little unfortunate rift which may have occurred between you.”
“You think there’s a chance that she might overlook what I said?”
“As I say, I will use any influence I may possess to heal the breach. I like you, my boy. And I am sure that Jill likes you. She will make allowances for any ill-judged remarks you may have uttered in a moment of heat.”
Mr Pilkington brightened, and Mrs Peagrim, returning with a medicine-glass, was pleased to see him looking so much better.
“You are a positive wizard, Major Selby,” she said archly. “What have you been saying to the poor boy to cheer him up so? He has a bad headache this morning.”
“Headache?” said Uncle Chris, starting like a war-horse that has heard the bugle. “I don’t know if I have ever mentioned it, but I used to suffer from headaches at one time. Extraordinarily severe headaches. I tried everything, until one day a man I knew recommended a thing called—don’t know if you have ever heard of it —”
Mrs Peagrim, in her role of ministering angel, was engrossed with her errand of mercy. She was holding the medicine-glass to Mr Pilkington’s lips, and the seed fell on stony ground.
“Drink this, dear,” urged Mrs Peagrim.
“Nervino,” said Uncle Chris.
“There!” said Mrs Peagrim. “That will make you feel much better. How well you always look, Major Selby!”
“And yet at one time,” said Uncle Chris perseveringly, “I was a martyr —”
“I can’t remember if I told you last night about the party. We are giving a little supper-dance to the company of Otie’s play after the performance this evening. Of course you will come?”
Uncle Chris philosophically accepted his failure to secure the ear of his audience. Other opportunities would occur.
“Delighted,” he said. “Delighted.”
“Quite a simple, bohemian little affair,” proceeded Mrs Peagrim. “I thought it was only right to give the poor things a little treat after they have all worked so hard.”
“Certainly, certainly. A capital idea.”
“We shall be quite a small party. If I once started asking anybody outside our real friends, I should have to ask everybody.”
The door opened.
“Mr Rooke,” announced the maid.
Freddie, like Mr Pilkington, was a prey to gloom this morning. He had read one or two of the papers, and they had been disgustingly lavish in their praise of The McWhustle of McWhustle. It made Freddie despair of the New York press. In addition to this, he had been woken up at seven o’clock, after going to sleep at three, by the ringing of the telephone and the announcement that a gentleman wished to see him: and he was weighed down with that heavy-eyed languor which comes to those whose night’s rest is broken.
“Why, how do you do, Mr Rooke!” said Mrs Peagrim.
“How-de-do,” replied Freddie, blinking in the strong light from the window. “Hope I’m not barging in and all that sort of thing? I came round about this party tonight, you know.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Was wondering,” said Freddie, “if you would mind if I brought a friend of mine along? Popped in on me from England this morning. At seven o’clock,” said Freddie plaintively. “Ghastly hour, what! Didn’t do a thing to the good old beauty sleep! Well, what I mean to say is, I’d be awfully obliged if you’d let me bring him along.”