"Oh, I say!" ejaculated Bream, abruptly sobered.
"Mortimer!" bawled Mr. Bennett, once more arresting the other as he was about to mount the stairs. "Do you or do you not intend to destroy that dog?"
"I do not."
"I insist on your doing so. He is a menace."
"He is nothing of the kind. On your own showing he didn't even bite you once. And every dog is allowed one bite by law. The case of Wilberforce v. Bayliss covers that point thoroughly."
"I don't care about the case of Wilberforce and Bayliss...."
"You will find that you have to. It is a legal precedent."
There is something about a legal precedent which gives pause to the angriest man. Mr. Bennett felt, as every layman feels when arguing with a lawyer, as if he were in the coils of a python.
"Say, Mr. Bennett...." began Bream at his elbow.
"Get out!" snarled Mr. Bennett.
"Yes, but, say...!"
The green baize door at the end of the hall opened, and Webster appeared.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Webster, "but luncheon will be served within the next few minutes. Possibly you may wish to make some change of costume."
"Bring me my lunch on a tray in my room," said Mr. Bennett. "I am going to bed."
"Very good, sir."
"But, say, Mr. Bennett...." resumed Bream.
"Grrh!" replied his ex-prospective-father-in-law, and bounded up the stairs like a portion of the sunset which had become detached from the main body.
§ 4
Even into the blackest days there generally creeps an occasional ray of sunshine, and there are few crises of human gloom which are not lightened by a bit of luck. It was so with Mr. Bennett in his hour of travail. There were lobsters for lunch, and his passion for lobsters had made him the talk of three New York clubs. He was feeling a little happier when Billie came in to see how he was getting on.
"Hullo, father. Had a nice lunch?"
"Yes," said Mr. Bennett, cheering up a little at the recollection. "There was nothing wrong with the lunch."
How little we fallible mortals know! Even as he spoke, a tiny fragment of lobster shell, which had been working its way silently into the tip of his tongue, was settling down under the skin and getting ready to cause him the most acute mental distress which he had ever known.
"The lunch," said Mr. Bennett, "was excellent. Lobsters!" He licked his lips appreciatively.
"And, talking of lobsters," he went on, "I suppose that boy Bream has told you that I have broken off your engagement?"
"Yes."
"You don't seem very upset," said Mr. Bennett, who was in the mood for a dramatic scene and felt a little disappointed.
"Oh, I've become a fatalist on the subject of my engagements."
"I don't understand you."
"Well, I mean, they never seem to come to anything." Billie gazed wistfully at the counterpane. "Do you know, father, I'm beginning to think that I'm rather impulsive. I wish I didn't do silly things in such a hurry."
"I don't see where the hurry comes in as regards that Mortimer boy. You took ten years to make up your mind."
"I was not thinking of Bream. Another man."
"Great Heavens! Are you still imagining yourself in love with young Hignett?"
"Oh, no! I can see now that I was never in love with poor Eustace. I was thinking of a man I got engaged to on the boat!"
Mr. Bennett sat bolt upright in bed, and stared incredulously at his surprising daughter. His head was beginning to swim.
"Of course I've misunderstood you," he said. "There's a catch somewhere and I haven't seen it. But for a moment you gave me the impression that you had promised to marry some man on the boat!"
"I did!"
"But...!" Mr. Bennett was doing sums on his fingers. "Do you mean to tell me," he demanded, having brought out the answer to his satisfaction, "do you mean to tell me that you have been engaged to three men in three weeks?"
"Yes," said Billie in a small voice.
"Great Godfrey! Er——?"
"No, only three."
Mr. Bennett sank back on to his pillow with a snort.
"The trouble is," continued Billie, "one does things and doesn't know how one is going to feel about it afterwards. You can do an awful lot of thinking afterwards, father."
"I'm doing a lot of thinking now," said Mr. Bennett with austerity. "You oughtn't to be allowed to go around loose!"
"Well, it doesn't matter. I shall never get engaged again. I shall never love anyone again."
"Don't tell me you are still in love with this boat man?"
Billie nodded miserably. "I didn't realise it till we came down here. But, as I sat and watched the rain, it suddenly came over me that I had thrown away my life's happiness. It was as if I had been offered a wonderful jewel and had refused it. I seemed to hear a voice reproaching me and saying, 'You have had your chance. It will never come again!'"
"Don't talk nonsense!" said Mr. Bennett.
Billie stiffened. She had thought she had been talking rather well.
Mr. Bennett was silent for a moment. Then he started up with an exclamation. The mention of Eustace Hignett had stirred his memory. "What's young Hignett got wrong with him?" he asked.
"Mumps."
"Mumps! Good God! Not mumps!" Mr. Bennett quailed. "I've never had mumps! One of the most infectious ... this is awful!... Oh, heavens! Why did I ever come to this lazar-house!" cried Mr. Bennett, shaken to his depths.
"There isn't the slightest danger, father, dear. Don't be silly. If I were you, I should try to get a good sleep. You must be tired after this morning."
"Sleep! If I only could!" said Mr. Bennett, and did so five minutes after the door had closed.
He awoke half an hour later with a confused sense that something was wrong. He had been dreaming that he was walking down Fifth Avenue at the head of a military brass band, clad only in a bathing suit. As he sat up in bed, blinking in the dazed fashion of the half-awakened, the band seemed to be playing still. There was undeniably music in the air. The room was full of it. It seemed to be coming up through the floor and rolling about in chunks all round his bed.
Mr. Bennett blinked the last fragments of sleep out of his system, and became filled with a restless irritability. There was only one instrument in the house which could create this infernal din—the orchestrion in the drawing-room, immediately above which, he recalled, his room was situated.
He rang the bell for Webster.
"Is Mr. Mortimer playing that—that damned gas-engine in the drawing-room?"
"Yes, sir. Tosti's 'Good-bye.' A charming air, sir."
"Go and tell him to stop it!"
"Very good, sir."
Mr. Bennett lay in bed and fumed. Presently the valet returned. The music still continued to roll about the room.
"I am sorry to have to inform you, sir," said Webster, "that Mr. Mortimer declines to accede to your request."
"Oh, he said that, did he?"
"That is the gist of his remarks, sir."
"Very good! Then give me my dressing-gown!"
Webster swathed his employer in the garment indicated, and returned to the kitchen, where he informed the cook that, in his opinion, the guv'nor was not a force, and that, if he were a betting man, he would put his money in the forthcoming struggle on Consul, the Almost-Human—by which affectionate nickname Mr. Mortimer senior was generally alluded to in the servants' hall.
Mr. Bennett, meanwhile, had reached the drawing-room, and found his former friend lying at full length on a sofa, smoking a cigar, a full dozen feet away from the orchestrion, which continued to thunder out its dirge on the passing of Summer.
"Will you turn that infernal thing off!" said Mr. Bennett.
"No!" said Mr. Mortimer.