“Buck up, Ned,” Lord Pastern said, grinning at him. “We haven’t had a word from you. You want takin’ out of yourself. Bit of gaiety, what?”
“By all means, sir,” said Edward. A white carnation had fallen out of the vase in the middle of the table. He took it up and put it in his coat. “The blameless life,” he said.
Lord Pastern cackled and turned to Bellairs. “Well, Breezy, if you think it’s all right, we’ll order the taxis for a quarter past ten. Think you can amuse yourselves till then?” He pushed the decanter towards Bellairs.
“Sure, sure,” Bellairs said. “No, thanks a lot, no more. A lovely wine, mind you, but I’ve got to be a good boy.”
Edward slid the port on to Rivera, who, smiling a little more broadly, refilled his glass.
“I’ll show you the blanks and the revolver, when we move,” said Lord Pastern. “They’re in the study.” He glanced fretfully at Rivera, who slowly pulled his glass towards him. Lord Pastern hated to be kept waiting. “Ned, you look after Carlos, will you? D’you mind, Carlos? I want to show Breezy the blanks. Come on, Breezy.”
Manx opened the door for his uncle and returned to the table. He sat down and waited for Rivera to make the first move. Spence came in, lingered for a moment and withdrew. There followed a long silence.
At last Rivera stretched out his legs and held his port to the light. “I am a man,” he said, “who likes to come to the point. You are Félicité’s cousin, yes?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m related to her stepfather.”
“She has spoken of you as her cousin.”
“A courtesy title,” said Edward.
“You are attached to her, I believe.”
Edward paused for three seconds and then said, “Why not?”
“It is not at all surprising,” Rivera said and drank half his port. “Carlisle also speaks of you as her cousin. Is that too a courtesy title?”
Edward pushed back his chair. “I’m afraid I don’t see the point of all this,” he said.
“The point? Certainly. I am a man,” Rivera repeated, “who likes to come to the point. I am also a man who does not care to be cold-shouldered or to be — what is the expression? — taken down a garden path. I find my reception in this house unsympathetic. This is displeasing to me. I meet, at the same time, a lady who is not displeasing to me. Quite on the contrary. I am interested. I make a tactful inquiry. I ask, for example, what is the relationship of this lady to my host. Why not?”
“Because it’s a singularly offensive question,” Edward said and thought: “My God, I’m going to lose my temper.”
Rivera made a convulsive movement of his hand and knocked his glass to the floor. They rose simultaneously.
“In my country,” Rivera said thickly, “one does not use such expressions without a sequel.”
“Be damned to your country.”
Rivera gripped the back of his chair and moistened his lips. He emitted a shrill belch. Edward laughed. Rivera walked towards him, paused, and raised his hand with the tips of the thumb and middle finger daintily pressed together. He advanced his hand until it was close to Edward’s nose and, without marked success, attempted to snap his fingers. “Bastard,” he said cautiously. From the distant ballroom came a syncopated roll of drums ending in a crash of cymbals and deafening report.
Edward said: “Don’t be a fool, Rivera.”
“I laugh at you till I make myself vomit.”
“Laugh yourself into a coma if you like.”
Rivera laid the palm of his hand against his waist. “In my country this affair would answer itself with a knife,” he said.
“Make yourself scarce or it’ll answer itself with a kick in the pants,” said Edward. “And if you worry Miss Wayne again I’ll give you a damn’ sound hiding.”
“Aha!” cried Rivera. “So it is not Félicité but the cousin. It is the enchanting little Carlisle. And I am to be warned off, ha? No, no, my friend.” He backed away to the door. “No, no, no, no.”
“Get out.”
Rivera laughed with great virtuosity and made an effective exit into the hall. He left the door open. Edward heard his voice on the next landing. “What is the matter?” and after a pause, “But certainly, if you wish it.”
A door slammed.
Edward walked once round the table in an irresolute manner. He then wandered to the sideboard and drove his hands through his hair. “This is incredible,” he muttered. “It’s extraordinary. I never dreamt of it.” He noticed that his hand was shaking and poured himself a stiff jorum of whiskey. “I suppose,” he thought, “it’s been there all the time and I simply didn’t recognize it.”
Spence and his assistant came in. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Spence. “I thought the gentlemen had left.”
“It’s all right, Spence. Clear, if you want to. Pay no attention to me.”
“Are you not feeling well, Mr. Edward?”
“I’m all right, I think. I’ve had a great surprise.”
“Indeed, sir? Pleasant, I trust.”
“In its way, wonderful, Spence. Wonderful.”
“There y’are,” said Lord Pastern complacently. “Five rounds and five extras. Neat, aren’t they?”
“Look good to me,” said Bellairs, returning him the blank cartridges. “But I wouldn’t know.” Lord Pastern broke open his revolver and began to fill the chamber. “We’ll try ’em,” he said.
“Not in here, for Pete’s sake, Lord Pastern.”
“In the ballroom.”
“It’ll rock the ladies a bit, won’t it?”
“What of it?” said Lord Pastern simply. He snapped the revolver shut and gave the drawer a shove back on the desk. “I can’t be bothered puttin’ that thing away,” he said. “You go to the ballroom. I’ve a job to do. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Obediently, Breezy left him and went into the ballroom, where he wandered about restlessly, sighing and yawning and glancing towards the door.
Presently his host came in looking preoccupied.
“Where’s Carlos?” Lord Pastern demanded.
“Still in the dining-room, I think,” said Bellairs with his loud laugh. “Wonderful port you’ve turned on for us, you know, Lord Pastern.”
“Hope he can hold it. We don’t want him playin’ the fool with the show.”
“He can hold it.”
Lord Pastern clapped his revolver down on the floor near the tympani. Bellairs eyed it uneasily.
“I wanted to ask you,” said Lord Pastern, sitting behind the drums. “Have you spoken to Sydney Skelton?”
Bellairs smiled extensively. “Well, I just haven’t got round…” he began. Lord Pastern cut him short. “If you don’t want to tell him,” he said, “I will.”
“No, no!” cried Bellairs, in a hurry. “No. I don’t think that’d be quite desirable, Lord Pastern, if you can understand.” He looked anxiously at his host, who had turned away to the piano and with an air of restless preoccupation examined the black and white parasol. Breezy continued: “I mean to say, Syd’s funny. He’s very temperamental if you know what I mean. He’s quite a tough guy to handle, Syd. You have to pick your moment with Syd, if you can understand.”
“Don’t keep on asking if I can understand things that are as simple as falling off a log,” Lord Pastern rejoined irritably. “You think I’m good on the drums, you’ve said so.”
“Sure, sure.”
“You said if I’d made it my profession I’d have been as good as they come. You said any band’d be proud to have me. Right. I am going to make it my profession and I’m prepared to be your full-time tympanist. Good. Tell Skelton and let him go. Perfectly simple.”
“Yes, but — ”
“He’ll get a job elsewhere fast enough, won’t he?”
“Yes. Sure. Easy. But…”
“Very well, then,” said Lord Pastern conclusively. He had unscrewed the handle from the parasol and was now busy with the top end of the shaft. “This comes to bits,” he said. “Rather clever, what? French.”