The other occupants of the room stared for a moment at Jimmy in the austere manner peculiar to the Briton who sees a stranger, and then resumed their respective conversations. One of their number, a slight, pale, young man, as scientifically clothed as Sir Thomas, left his group, and addressed himself to Molly.
"Ah, here you are, Miss McEachern," he said. "At last. We were all getting so anxious."
"Really?" said Molly. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Wesson."
"I assure you, yes. Positively. A gray gloom had settled upon us. We pictured you in all sorts of horrid situations. I was just going to call for volunteers to scour the country, or whatever it is that one does in such circumstances. I used to read about it in books, but I have forgotten the technical term. I am relieved to find that you are not even dusty, though it would have been more romantic if you could have managed a little dust here and there. But don't consider my feelings, Miss McEachern, please."
Molly introduced Jimmy to the newcomer. They shook hands, Jimmy with something of the wariness of a boxer in the ring. He felt an instinctive distrust of this man. Why, he could not have said. Perhaps it was a certain subtle familiarity in his manner of speaking to Molly that annoyed him. Jimmy objected strongly to any one addressing her as if there existed between them some secret understanding. Already the mood of the old New York days was strong upon him. His instinct then had been to hate all her male acquaintances with an unreasoning hatred. He found himself in much the same frame of mind, now.
"So you're Spennie's friend," said Mr. Wesson, "the man who's going to show us all how to act, what?"
"I believe there is some idea of my being a 'confused noise without', or something."
"Haven't they asked you to play Lord Algernon?" inquired Wesson, with more animation than he usually allowed himself to exhibit.
"Who is Lord Algernon?"
"Only a character in the piece we are acting."
"What does he do?"
"He talks to me most of the time," said Molly.
"Then," said Jimmy decidedly, "I seem to see myself making a big hit."
"It's a long part if you aren't used to that sort of thing," said Wesson.
He had hoped that the part with its wealth of opportunity would have fallen to himself.
"I am used to it," said Jimmy. "Thanks."
"If that little beast's after Molly," thought Jimmy, "there will be trouble."
"Come along," said Molly, "and be introduced, and get some tea."
"Well, Molly, dear," said Lady Jane, with a grateful smile at the interruption, "we didn't know what had become of you. Did Dandy give you trouble?"
"Dandy's a darling, and wouldn't do anything of the sort if you asked him to. He's a kind little 'oss, as Thomas says. He only walked away when I got off to pick some roses, and I couldn't catch him. And then I met Jimmy."
Jimmy bowed.
"I hope you aren't tired out," said Lady Jane to him. "We thought you would never arrive. It's such a long walk. It was really too careless of Spennie not to let us know when he expected you."
"I was telling Spencer in the automobile," put in Lady Blunt, with ferocity, "that my father would have horsewhipped him if he had been a son of his. He would."
"Really, Julia!" protested Lady Jane rather faintly.
"That's so. And I don't care who knows it. A boy doesn't want to forget things if he's going to make his way in the world. I told Spencer so in the automobile."
Jimmy had noticed that Spennie was not in the room. He now understood his absence. After the ride he had probably felt that an hour or two passed out of his aunt's society would not do him any harm. He was now undergoing a rest cure, Jimmy imagined, in the billiard room.
"I can assure you," said he, by way of lending a helping hand to the absent one, "I really preferred to walk. I have only just landed in England from New York, and it's quite a treat to walk on an English country road again."
"Are you from New York? I wonder if——"
"Jimmy's an old friend," said Molly. "We knew him very well indeed. It was such a surprise meeting him."
"How interesting," said Lady Jane languidly, as if the intellectual strain of the conversation had been too much for her. "You will have such lots to talk about, won't you?"
"I say," said Jimmy, as they moved away, "who is that fellow Wesson?"
"Oh, a man," said Molly vaguely.
"There's no need to be fulsome," said Jimmy. "He can't hear."
"Mother likes him. I don't."
"Mother?"
"Hullo," said Molly, "there's father."
The door had opened while they were talking, and Mr. Patrick McEachern had walked solidly into the room. The ornaments on the Chippendale tables jingled as he came. Secretly he was somewhat embarrassed at finding himself in the midst of so many people. He had not yet mastered the art of feeling at home in his own house. At meals he did not fear his wife's guests so much. Their attention was in a manner distributed at such times, instead of being, as now, focused upon himself. He stood there square and massive, outwardly the picture of all that was rugged and independent, looking about him for a friendly face. To offer a general remark, or to go boldly and sit down beside one of those dazzling young ladies, like some heavyweight spider beside a Miss Muffet, was beyond him. In his time he had stopped runaway horses, clubbed mad dogs, and helped to break up East Side gang fights, when the combatants on both sides were using their guns lavishly and impartially; but his courage failed him here.
"Why," said Jimmy, "is your father here, too? I didn't know that."
To himself he reviled his luck. How much would he see of Molly now? Her father's views on himself were no sealed book to him.
Molly looked at him in surprise.
"Didn't know?" she said. "Didn't I tell you the place belonged to father?"
"What!" said Jimmy. "This house?"
"Yes. Of course."
"And—by gad, I've got it. He has married Spennie Blunt's mother."
"Yes."
"Well, I'm—surprised."
Suddenly he began to chuckle.
"What is it, Jimmy?"
"Why—why, I've just grasped the fact that your father—your father, mind you—is my host. I'm the honored guest. At his house!"
The chuckle swelled into a laugh. The noise attracted McEachern's attention, and, looking in the direction whence it proceeded, he caught sight of Molly.
With a grin of joy, he made for the sofa.
"Well, father, dear?" said Molly nervously.
Mr. McEachern was staring horribly at Jimmy, who had risen to his feet.
"How do you do, Mr. McEachern?"
The ex-policeman continued to stare.
"Father," said Molly in distress. "Father, let me present—I mean, don't you remember Jimmy? You must remember Jimmy, father! Jimmy Pitt, whom you used to know in New York."
CHAPTER VI.
On his native asphalt there are few situations capable of throwing the New York policeman off his balance. In that favored clime, savoir faire is represented by a shrewd left hook at the jaw, and a masterful stroke of the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shall you never take the policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other surroundings, Mr. Patrick McEachern would have known how to deal with his young acquaintance, Mr. Jimmy Pitt. But another plan of action was needed here. First of all, the hints on etiquette with which Lady Jane had favored him, from time to time, and foremost came the mandate: "Never make a scene." Scenes, Lady Jane had explained—on the occasion of his knocking down an objectionable cabman during their honeymoon trip—were of all things what polite society most resolutely abhorred. The natural man in him must be bound in chains. The sturdy blow must give way to the honeyed word. A cold "Really!" was the most vigorous retort that the best circles would countenance.