“That’s just what I think I am.”
“I wish I could get you to see my point of view.”
“I do see your point of view. But dimly. You see, my own takes up such a lot of the foreground.”
There was a pause.
“Then I am afraid,” said Lord Marshmoreton, “that we must leave matters as they stand.”
“Until they can be altered for the better.”
“We will say no more about it now.”
“Very well.”
“But I must ask you to understand clearly that I shall have to do everything in my power to stop what I look on as an unfortunate entanglement.”
“I understand,”
“Very well.”
Lord Marshmoreton coughed. George looked at him with some surprise. He had supposed the interview to be at an end, but the other made no move to go. There seemed to be something on the earl’s mind.
“There is—ah—just one other thing,” said Lord Marshmoreton. He coughed again. He felt embarrassed. “Just—just one other thing,” he repeated.
The reason for Lord Marshmoreton’s visit to George had been twofold. In the first place, Lady Caroline had told him to go. That would have been reason enough. But what made the visit imperative was an unfortunate accident of which he had only that morning been made aware.
It will be remembered that Billie Dore had told George that the gardener with whom she had become so friendly had taken her name and address with a view later on to send her some of his roses. The scrap of paper on which this information had been written was now lost. Lord Marshmoreton had been hunting for it since breakfast without avail.
Billie Dore had made a decided impression upon Lord Marshmoreton. She belonged to a type which he had never before encountered, and it was one which he had found more than agreeable. Her knowledge of roses and the proper feeling which she manifested towards rose-growing as a life-work consolidated the earl’s liking for her. Never, in his memory, had he come across so sensible and charming a girl; and he had looked forward with a singular intensity to meeting her again. And now some too zealous housemaid, tidying up after the irritating manner of her species, had destroyed the only clue to her identity.
It was not for some time after this discovery that hope dawned again for Lord Marshmoreton. Only after he had given up the search for the missing paper as fruitless did he recall that it was in George’s company that Billie had first come into his life. Between her, then, and himself George was the only link.
It was primarily for the purpose of getting Billie’s name and address from George that he had come to the cottage. And now that the moment had arrived for touching upon the subject, he felt a little embarrassed.
“When you visited the castle,” he said, “when you visited the castle …”
“Last Thursday,” said George helpfully.
“Exactly. When you visited the castle last Thursday, there was a young lady with you.”
Not realizing that the subject had been changed, George was under the impression that the other had shifted his front and was about to attack him from another angle. He countered what seemed to him an insinuation stoutly.
“We merely happened to meet at the castle. She came there quite independently of me.”
Lord Marshmoreton looked alarmed. “You didn’t know her?” he said anxiously.
“Certainly I knew her. She is an old friend of mine. But if you are hinting …”
“Not at all,” rejoined the earl, profoundly relieved. “Not at all. I ask merely because this young lady, with whom I had some conversation, was good enough to give me her name and address. She, too, happened to mistake me for a gardener.”
“It’s those corduroy trousers,” murmured George in extenuation.
“I have unfortunately lost them.”
“You can always get another pair.”
“Eh?”
“I say you can always get another pair of corduroy trousers.”
“I have not lost my trousers. I have lost the young lady’s name and address.”
“Oh!”
“I promised to send her some roses. She will be expecting them.”
“That’s odd. I was just reading a letter from her when you came in. That must be what she’s referring to when she says, ‘If you see dadda, the old dear, tell him not to forget my roses.’ I read it three times and couldn’t make any sense out of it. Are you Dadda?”
The earl smirked. “She did address me in the course of our conversation as dadda.”
“Then the message is for you.”
“A very quaint and charming girl. What is her name? And where can I find her?”
“Her name’s Billie Dore.”
“Billie?”
“Billie.”
“Billie!” said Lord Marshmoreton softly. “I had better write it down. And her address?”
“I don’t know her private address. But you could always reach her at the Regal Theatre.”
“Ah! She is on the stage?”
“Yes. She’s in my piece, ‘Follow the Girl’.”
“Indeed! Are you a playwright, Mr. Bevan?”
“Good Lord, no!” said George, shocked. “I’m a composer.”
“Very interesting. And you met Miss Dore through her being in this play of yours?”
“Oh, no. I knew her before she went on the stage. She was a stenographer in a music-publisher’s office when we first met.”
“Good gracious! Was she really a stenographer?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh—ah—nothing, nothing. Something just happened to come to my mind.”
What happened to come into Lord Marshmoreton’s mind was a fleeting vision of Billie installed in Miss Alice Faraday’s place as his secretary. With such a helper it would be a pleasure to work on that infernal Family History which was now such a bitter toil. But the day-dream passed. He knew perfectly well that he had not the courage to dismiss Alice. In the hands of that calm-eyed girl he was as putty. She exercised over him the hypnotic spell a lion-tamer exercises over his little playmates.
“We have been pals for years,” said George “Billie is one of the best fellows in the world.”
“A charming girl.”
“She would give her last nickel to anyone that asked for it.”
“Delightful!”
“And as straight as a string. No one ever said a word against Billie.”
“No?”
“She may go out to lunch and supper and all that kind of thing, but there’s nothing to that.”
“Nothing!” agreed the earl warmly. “Girls must eat!”
“They do. You ought to see them.”
“A little harmless relaxation after the fatigue of the day!”
“Exactly. Nothing more.”
Lord Marshmoreton felt more drawn than ever to this sensible young man—sensible, at least, on all points but one. It was a pity they could not see eye to eye on what was and what was not suitable in the matter of the love-affairs of the aristocracy.
“So you are a composer, Mr. Bevan?” he said affably.
“Yes.”
Lord Marshmoreton gave a little sigh. “It’s a long time since I went to see a musical performance. More than twenty years. When I was up at Oxford, and for some years afterwards, I was a great theatre-goer. Never used to miss a first night at the Gaiety. Those were the days of Nellie Farren and Kate Vaughan. Florence St. John, too. How excellent she was in Faust Up To Date! But we missed Nellie Farren. Meyer Lutz was the Gaiety composer then. But a good deal of water has flowed under the bridge since those days. I don’t suppose you have ever heard of Meyer Lutz?”
“I don’t think I have.”
“Johnnie Toole was playing a piece called Partners. Not a good play. And the Yeoman of the Guard had just been produced at the Savoy. That makes it seem a long time ago, doesn’t it? Well, I mustn’t take up all your time. Good-bye, Mr. Bevan. I am glad to have had the opportunity of this little talk. The Regal Theatre, I think you said, is where your piece is playing? I shall probably be going to London shortly. I hope to see it.” Lord Marshmoreton rose. “As regards the other matter, there is no hope of inducing you to see the matter in the right light?”
“We seem to disagree as to which is the right light.”