'That's right. In France before that. Down South. Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo. Came the southern route on one of those Italian boats. Get gum in France, too. Amazing. Well, how is the old-timer?'
'The old-timer?'
'Alice. Grand girl. Wish I'd seen more of her these last twenty-five years. How's she doing?'
'Oh, she's splendid.'
'That's good. Say, to think of her being mistress of a great place like this. How did that come about?'
'You mean how did mother come to marry Buck?'
'Yeah. Last I saw of her her station was humble. She'd gotten a job demonstrating underclothes.'
'When Buck met her, she was in the chorus of a musical comedy.'
'I see. Same thing. So she went on the stage, did she?'
'In a piece called The Pink Lady.'
Mr Bulpitt was interested.
'Say, was she in that? Some show, that was. Never saw the New York production myself, because I was out on the road with a patent floor sweeper all the time it was running. Saw the Western company, though. Twice. Once in Kansas City and once in St. Louis. Boy, that was music. Don't get any like it nowadays.' He put back his head and closed his eyes. 'To – ah – you – ah – beryootiful lady, I—Pardon me,' he said, recovering, 'you were saying—'
'They brought the New York company over to London and Buck went to see it and fell in love with mother at first sight and sent a note round asking her to supper – he was a great dasher in those days – and mother went, and about a week later they got married.'
The story seemed to affect Mr Bulpitt deeply. In the formative years of his life he had been a singing waiter, and the nightly rendering of mushy ballads to an audience inclined on the slightest provocation to cry into its beer made him susceptible to sentiment.
'A real romance!'
'Oh, rather.'
'The great English lord and the little American Cinderella.'
'Well, Buck's not a lord, and I'm bound to say I've never looked on mother as a little Cinderella, but it was very sweet, wasn't it?'
'You betcher. There's nothing like romance.'
'No.'
'It's love that makes the world go round.'
'Well put.'
Mr Bulpitt paused. He coughed. His eye had taken on a meaning glint. His hand stirred slightly, as if he were about to drive home his remarks by prodding her in the ribs. And though he allowed it to fall without making this physical demonstration, Jane had no difficulty in divining what was to come. It was her companion's intention, she perceived, dismissing the amours of the older generation, to touch upon those of the younger.
'And say, talking of love and romance—'
'Yes, I know.'
'Down by the river yesterday evening.'
'Yes.'
'Who was he?'
'A friend of mine.'
'Well, I sort of guessed he wasn't somebody you couldn't stand the sight of. What's his name?'
'Adrian Peake.'
'Quite a smacker you were giving him.'
'Quite.'
'Reminded me of a painting by that fellow, you see his stuff everywhere, that does pitchers of guys in three-cornered hats and short pants.'
'Marcus Stone?'
'That's right. You're pretty fond of him, I guess?'
'Very. And now,' said Jane, 'I'm sure you must be wanting to see mother.'
She moved to the bell and pressed it. But in supposing that this action would cause her companion to change the subject, she had vastly mistaken her Bulpitt. He was not a man who changed subjects.
'Good-looking young fellow.'
'Yes.'
'Known him long?'
'Not very.'
'What does he work at?'
Jane flushed. The question was a simple one – even a less probing person than Samuel Bulpitt would probably have asked it – but she found it disturbing. Hearing it, she experienced a quite definite twinge of regret that she was unable to reply that Adrian was a rising young barrister or even an earnest toiler in an office, and it made her feel disloyal.
'I don't quite know what he does. He was a gossip writer at one time. He's got a sort of income. Quite small.'
'I see,' said Mr Bulpitt, nodding. 'Lowly suitor.'
The door opened. Pollen, the butler, appeared. Mr Bulpitt wiped his hand on his trouser leg and extended it reverently.
'Lord Abbott?'
'No, sir,' said Pollen, ignoring the hand. 'You rang, miss?'
'Yes. Will you tell my mother that Mr Bulpitt is here.'
'Very good, miss.'
The butler withdrew, and Mr Bulpitt returned to his cross-examination, as fresh as ever.
'Any prospects?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'This boy. Does he show any sign of getting places?'
'No.'
'Oh? And what does his lordship think about it?'
'He doesn't know.'
'You haven't wised him up?'
'Not yet.'
'I see. Well, it's too bad he's quitting. You'll miss him.'
'Quitting?'
'Leaving. This boy Peake. Didn't you know?'
'But he can't be. He only came yesterday.'
'Well, that's what he was saying to that young J. J. Vanringham down at the inn.'
Jane started.
'Vanringham!'
'That's what he told me his name was. Hard-looking guy with a pair of shoulders on him. I heard them talking. I only came in at the tail end of the conversation, but Peake was saying he was hiring a car and lighting out.'
Samuel Bulpitt was a solid little man, but he was flickering before Jane's eyes as if he had been a picture in the smoke. The discovery that Joe Vanringham had had the nerve, the audacity, the crust to follow her to her home filled her with a fury which for the moment took her mind completely off the astonishing fact that Adrian Peake had decided to curtail his visit. She was conscious of an overwhelming desire to be alone and out in the open. Like someone recovering from a swoon she wanted air.
'Do you mind if I leave you?' she said. 'Mother will be here in a minute.'
'Go right along,' said Mr Bulpitt agreeably.
She flashed out through the French windows, and he started to potter about the room, sniffing the flowers. And a few moments later the door opened again and Lady Abbott came in.
At the moment when Pollen arrived with his message, Lady Abbott had been reclining upon a settee in her boudoir, thinking of her Buck and how much she loved him and what a pity it was that he allowed himself to get fussed about trifles like owing Mr Chinnery five hundred pounds. She herself never fussed about anything. She was large and blonde and of a monumental calmness which not even earthquakes on the terrace or the falling in of the roof would have been able to disturb.
And if this placidity should seem strange in one who had once earned her living in the chorus of musical comedy, it must be remembered that it is only in these restless modern days that the term 'chorus girl' has come to connote a small, wiry person with india-rubber legs and flexible joints, suffering, to all appearance, from an advanced form of St. Vitus's dance.
In the era of Lady Abbott's professional career, the personnel of the ensemble were tall, stately creatures, shaped like hourglasses, who stood gazing dreamily at the audience, supporting themselves on long parasols. Sometimes they would emerge from the coma for an instant to bow slightly to a friend in the front row, but not often. As a rule, they just stood statuesquely And of all these statuesque slanders none had ever stood with a more completely statuesque immobility than the then Alice (Toots) Bulpitt.
She was looking rather like a statue now, as she paused in the doorway and surveyed this brother who had been absent from her life for a quarter of a century. It was Mr Bulpitt who supplied the animation fitting to so dramatic a reunion.
'Well, well, well!' said Mr Bulpitt. 'Well, well, well, well, well!'
A flicker of interest disturbed the marmoreal calm of Lady Abbott's face.
'Gosh,
Sam,' she said, 'have you been chewing that bit of gum ever since I saw you last?'
Mr Bulpitt performed another of his delicate withdrawals to the terrace.
'Different piece,' he explained, returning and speaking more clearly. 'Well, well, well, well, well!'
Lady Abbott permitted herself to be drawn into a brotherly embrace.
'It's great seeing you again, Alice.'
'Great seeing you, Sam.'
'Gave you a surprise, eh?'
'You could have knocked me down with a feather,' said Lady Abbott, quite untruly. The feather had not been grown by bird that could have disturbed her balance for an instant. 'What are you doing on this side? Business?'
'And pleasure.'
'You still travelling with those floor sweepers of yours?'
'Gee, no. I quit peddling them fifteen years ago.'
'What are you doing now?'
'Well, you might say I'd retired. I thought I had. But you know how it is. You get with a bunch of the boys and they talk you into things. Say, you look just the same, Alice.'
'You're kind of fatter.'
'I guess I have put on a pound or two.'
'Those teeth are new, aren't they?'
'This year's,' said Mr Bulpitt rather proudly. 'Say, this is a great place you've got here, Alice.'
'I like it.'
'And that's a great girl you've got.'
'Imogen?'
'Is that her name? Just been talking to her. She was telling me about your romance.'
'Oh, yes?'
'Some romance. Like a fairy story.'
'Yes. I'm glad you liked Imogen.'
'She's swell. So, if the old man's all right, too, seems to me you've got a full hand.'
A tender look came into Lady Abbott's beautiful eyes as it always did when she thought of her husband.
'Buck's great. You'll like Buck. Come along and I'll take you to him. He's in his study.'
'Sure. What do I call him? Your lordship?'
'I've never heard of anyone calling him anything except "Buck".'
'Regular fellow, eh?'
'One of the gang,' said Lady Abbott.
She led the way along passages and round corners, until they came to a door from behind which proceeded the sound of voices. She pushed it open and went in.
The voices which had proceeded from behind the study door were those of Sir Buckstone Abbott and Mr Chinnery But at the time of Mr Bulpitt's intrusion upon Jane in the dining-room only the former had been present. He was working on some papers connected with the estate.
It was a task which he never enjoyed and it might have been supposed that, finding it so irksome, he would have welcomed any interruption that took his mind off it. This, however, was not the case. When, after he had been occupied for some little while, the door suddenly burst open and Mr Chinnery came charging in, he was not pleased but annoyed; and more than annoyed, outraged. It was an understood thing that, when in his study, he was supposed to enjoy those privileges of sanctuary which outlaws of old were allowed to claim at the altar.
His first impression, however, that his guest had invaded his privacy in order to take up once more the matter of that five- hundred-pound loan was not correct. Mr Chinnery's moonlike face was pallid and his eyes, peering through their glasses, had a hunted look. It was plain that he had more serious things on his mind than frozen assets.
'Abbott,' said Mr Chinnery, 'I've had a shock.'
It was on the tip of Sir Buckstone's tongue to tell him to go and work off its effects elsewhere, but he refrained – not so much because he shrank from being brusque as because he had no time to speak.
His visitor continued:
'That fellow's here!'
'What fellow?'
'I'd gone down to the village to buy some stamps, and I was passing the inn, and out he came.'
'Who?'
'This fellow.'
'What fellow?'
'This fellow I'm telling you about. He came out of the inn. Yes, sir, right plump spang in the middle of an Old World English village where who in God's name would ever have thought he'd have been within a thousand miles of? Goosh!'
Mr Chinnery sank into a chair and passed his tongue over his lips. His manner was that of a stag at bay. Imagine a stag in hornrimmed spectacles, and you have Elmer Chinnery at this moment. Landseer would have liked to paint him.
'Listen, Abbott,' he said. 'You know, I guess, that I've not been altogether too fortunate in my matrimonial ventures. I'm easily led, that's what's the trouble with me, and I'm too softhearted to say no, and the result is I don't seem to pick 'em right. So, what with one thing and another, I'm paying out alimony three ways now, and a fourth pending. That's why I skipped out of New York, because I heard my fourth wife was trying to have me served with the papers. And now this fellow arrives. Here! In this Old World English village. Can you beat it?'
'What fellow?'
'I can't do it!' cried Mr Chinnery feverishly. 'I can't afford to pay out any more alimony. No fortune can stand the strain. And it isn't as if I'd got all the money in the world. People think I have, but I haven't. And I've had some extra expenses lately,' he added, collecting himself sufficiently to give his companion a meaning glance. 'Some heavy extra expenses. And now this fellow pops up right plumb spang in the middle of—'
Sir Buckstone's voice took on the timbre of that of one of those lions roaring outside the camp fire, of which he had written so feelingly in his recently published volume, 'My Sporting Memories' (Mortimer Busby Co., 15s.). He was a sensitive man, and the meaning look had stirred him up.
'What fellow?'
'This fellow I'm telling you about that I was down in the village buying stamps and saw him coming out of the inn. You know who he is? America's champion plasterer. Claims he always gets his man, and he does too. He's like a bloodhound.'
'Plasterer?' said Sir Buckstone, puzzled. He had had plasterers in the house only two weeks ago, but he had discerned nothing in their bearing to inspire alarm. They had made the deuce of a mess, slopping stuff all over the place, but they had appeared to him stolid and, except for their tendency to whistle 'Body and Soul' off the key, quiet men. He could not see a plasterer in the role of bloodhound.
'Process server,' interpreted Mr Chinnery, realizing that he was talking to an unenlightened foreigner.
'Oh?' said Sir Buckstone. 'Ah? You mean the man who serves the papers on you?'
Mr Chinnery quivered.
'Serves the papers,' he said emotionally, 'is right. He never misses. He's like a stoat and a rabbit. Listen while I tell you how he got me, the time my first wife – no, it was my second – was chasing me with that inhuman mental cruelty suit of hers. I was lying up at an hotel in Stamford, Connecticut, reckoning he'd never be able to trail me down there, and I'm sitting at the open window after breakfast, smoking a cigar and thinking I'd got him fooled at last, when all of a sudden there he is, on top of a ladder with the papers in his hand, and he threw them in my lap, saying: "Ahoy there, Mr Chinnery!" Threw them at me, y'understand! I claimed it was not fair and didn't count, but the courts said it did, and there it was. And I'm walking through this Old World English village just now, buying stamps, and out of the inn he comes. How did he find me? That's what gets clear past me, Abbott. How in all get-out did he ever come to know that I was living in these parts? I tell you, the fellow's like one of those Indian temple priests in the stories, where the guy steals the jewel that's the idol's eye and lights out and thinks he'd hid himself away perfectly safe, and suddenly he looks over his shoulder and here come all these sinister Indian priests around the corner.'
Mr Chinnery paused for breath. Sir Buckstone was smiling dreamily. All this reminded him of the old happy days of his youth.
'The great man in London in my time,' he said, 'was a fellow named Bunyan. Ferret Bunyan, we used to call him. He once served me for two pounds seven and six, I remember, for a knee-length-hosiery bill. I thought it rather a compliment, and so did all my friend
s. I mean to say, he being such a big pot and me just a young chap about town. It was long before I came into the title.'
Mr Chinnery was in no mood for Edwardian reminiscences.
'Never mind about that. It isn't any Bunyans I'm talking about; it's this man Bulpitt.'
Sir Buckstone started.
'Bulpitt? Is his name Bulpitt?'
He gave a little moan. It signified that hope was dead. Questioning his Toots on the previous day, he had learned that this brother of hers had started his career as a singing waiter and continued it as a traveller in patent floor sweepers, but even then he had not quite despaired. These walks in life might not seem an auspicious beginning to the climb up the ladder of wealth, but with Americans, he had told himself, you never knew. Half the American millionaires you met had started out in a small way. Mr Chinnery himself had once sold hot dogs. In spite of everything, he had clung hopefully to his dream of an affectionate brother-in-law with a large balance at the bank.
But not any longer. If, in these last twenty-five years, Toots's brother Sam had raised himself from the modest position of a singing waiter to that of America's foremost process server, the fact did him credit, of course, and showed what could be accomplished by a man of grit and enterprise, but it was no longer possible to entertain any illusion that he might have the stuff in any appreciable quantity. Even the most gifted of plasterers does not pay super-tax.
He sat among the ruins of his shattered hopes, chewing his pen and thinking how different it all would have been had his wife been the sister of Henry Ford. And as he sat, the door opened and Lady Abbott came in, escorting Mr Bulpitt.
Their arrival was greeted by a loud crash, as of some heavy body falling on something hard. It was caused by Mr Chinnery Springing from his chair like the hunted stag he so much resembled, he had had the misfortune to slip on a loose rug. When the moment for introduction came, he was sitting on the floor.
His behaviour, the eccentricity of which might have caused hostesses to show surprise, had no effect whatever on Lady Abbott's impregnable calm. She did not even raise her eyebrows. She might have been watching big fish-glue men take tosses out of chairs all her life.
'Here's Sam, Buck,' she said.
Sir Buckstone, still brooding on what might have been, stared dully at the little man. Mr Bulpitt bustled forward, hand outstretched.