STILL feeling rather a puppet in the hands of Fate, Mr. Philip reached No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, about twenty minutes after the hour appointed. But as the great Proconsul really must be at the House of Lords by a quarter to four, luncheon had already begun.
“I notice, Philip,” said S. of P., who had arranged with the Woolsack to address his fellow peers in support of the Daylight Saving Bill that afternoon, “that you hardly realize the importance of the part played by time in the lives of us all. I said half-past one distinctly in my note.”
The unfortunate young man apologized very humbly and politely to the great Proconsul.
Considering what an Odyssey his life had been that morning, the young fellow made a very decent luncheon. Just the wing of a woodcock, and a bit off the breast, a few slices of York ham, a jam puff or so, a bite of cheese and an imperial pint of bitter ale out of a presentation silver tankard bearing the arms of Ch: Ch. Blind instinct seemed to tell the young man that he must keep up his strength, since there was a dull sensation behind the chocolate waistcoat, knitted for him by his mother, which clearly suggested that trouble was looming in the middle distance. Port wine, Green Chartreuse, a big cigar, and black coffee all played their manly parts. Yes, with the help of the gods he might be able to keep up his end all right; although he was by no means sure that he liked that concentrated, governing-classes look in the eye of the good old Mater.
The after-luncheon conference in the library was most impressive. The Governing Classes were distinctly fortissimo; and in spite of his ample sustenance, Mr. Philip felt rather meager in the presence of this deep reverence for the established order, and so much of that which is best in the public and private life of these islands.
Lord Warlock, subject to certain contingencies, was prepared to accept other contingencies in respect of Adela. The First Baron was admirably clear and statesmanlike in his aperçu of the most interesting position which had been evolved by the higher diplomacy.
“Sometime in October, at dear Saint George’s,” thought the good old Mater.
The heir to the barony was silent, dismal, and undone. He had hesitated about a second Green Chartreuse; he wished now that he had obeyed his inward monitor. There was a sense of vacuum behind the knitted chocolate waistcoat that was really the devil.
“It is like this, you know—” The young man floundered and came down rather awkwardly at fence Number One. “Adela and I—well, fact is, we haven’t—”
The Governing Classes showed great patience.
“We haven’t sort of—you know—?”
“I am afraid we don’t, my boy,” said S. of P. with the blandness that goes so well with conscious power.
“The end of October is such a good time,” said Mother, “especially if there is to be an autumn session.”
“Oh, yes,” said the young man, “but, fact is, Adela and I have never quite hit it off from the start.”
The Governing Classes, with lowered eyelids, looked at one another across the chaste expanse of Messrs. Maple’s hearthrug. The pause was rather trying. Yes, an awful pity about that second Green Chartreuse.
At last S. of P. was sorry.
This may look a little inadequate on the part of S. of P. But it wasn’t really. Eton and Balliol, “distinguished public service,” terms of intimacy with His Majesty’s late Government are not incapable of resonance on the domestic hearth. It was already clear that the higher statesmanship might have to be tempered with a little benevolent autocracy.
“Warlock is really most liberal—that is, of course, for an Irish peerage.”
“Most liberal, Wally,” the Suffolk Colthurst chimed.
“Isn’t October rather soon, Mater?” said Mr. Philip, beginning to shape like a tailor, at fence Number Two.
“The sooner, the better, we think.”
“I agree with you, Agatha.”
“Oh, but—” said the unfortunate heir.
The Governing Classes were to be butted no buts, however.
“Philip,” said the good old Mater, “your father has been at the trouble to draw up an announcement for the Morning Post. It will be shown to Lord Warlock this evening, and with his sanction it will be sent to the editor by the first post to-morrow.”
“I don’t think I should trouble, Mater, if I were you,” said the unhappy young man.
Now, that really was rather ineffectual, and sounded quite as much so as it appears.
“I think the announcement should be made at once,” said Father. “Adela is a charming girl; you are a very lucky fellow; and you are to be envied. Philip, my dear boy, I congratulate you with all my heart.”
S. of P. shook the heir to the barony warmly by the hand.
“Kiss me, dear Philip.” And Mother offered the blonde, bland frontispiece.
No seaworthy excuse can be put forward for dear Philip’s refusal to kiss his mother. Not a refusal exactly; but he burked the issue by asking to be allowed to read the announcement which had been drawn up for the Morning Post.
A very little research discovered the interesting document on Father’s writing-table.
Mr. Philip read the announcement as duly set forth in the elegant maternal hand. He then sighed heavily; and then it was the Green Chartreuse at last began to play up to its reputation.
The young man folded up the announcement carefully, and placed it in his cigar case.
“Well, if you prefer to send it yourself—so long as it is sent, my dear boy.”
“I hope you won’t forget all about it, Philip,” said the maternal one.
“But I am not going to send it,” said the young man, all sweetness and simplicity.
Yes, pretty good work by the Green Chartreuse.
Dead silence.
Mother got the first gun into action.
Why wasn’t dear Philip going to send it?
Dear Philip thought it was premature.
Mournful interlude on the tragic note. Warlock would not take kindly to delay, said Father in deep tones. Was it kind to dear Adela? asked the third person at the conference.
“I shall be glad to hear the grounds of your objection,” said S. of P.
It was merely that they didn’t seem quite to hit it off. Adela was an awfully nice girl; the fault was his entirely; but still he didn’t quite feel as if—
In this charming passage in the aria the Suffolk Colthurst fluted tremulously. So sweet a girl as Adela, so good a family, such excellent connections—
The great Proconsul was rather grieved, in his deepest and richest baritone.
But there it was! said the Green Chartreuse, doing its level best for England, Home and Beauty.
Nevertheless, the Governing Classes seemed hardly able to concede that it was there. They were dining that evening in Mount Street to meet Warlock’s sister, Dumbarton’s sixth duchess. Hadn’t dear Philip better return the sheet of note paper to his father?
The young man rose slowly to confront the Governing Classes.
“Fact is, you know,” said he, “I haven’t asked her yet; and if I did ask her I’m pretty certain she wouldn’t have me. Not that I blame her, of course.”
“Philip, you must listen to me,” said the Proconsul. “Lady Adela will, as I have reason to know, be quite willing to identify herself with the wishes of her family. My dear boy, allow me to express the hope that you, as the future head of yours, will show yourself equally amenable.”
The firmness of the Powers was stupendous. But firmness comes easy when you have passed your life thinking imperially.
Wasn’t it all rather selfish of Philip?
Has a man a right to be selfish, even when he’s staking his life’s happiness? Depends on the sort of man you are, said the Green Chartreuse. Personally, we consider, said the Green Chartreuse, you will be the “absolute it” in the fool class if you allow your people to queer your pitch for you on the score of Family. Adela is a cat, and you know it; Mary Caspar is a girl in a million, and you know that, too; you have no need to be ambitious; you will have quite as much money, and quite as much position as is good for any young fellow. If you don’t want to make a clean sweep of all the prizes in the Juggins Department you will answer in the negative in a quiet, firm, and manly voice.
Here it was, moreover, that Destiny, who seemed to hold a watching brief for the defendant, played a very useful card for the Green Chartreuse. S. of P. consulted his watch, and raised his well-brushed white eyebrows in dismay. A quarter past three already; and he made a point of never missing prayers if he had to keep an appointment with the Woolsack.
In the circumstances, there was only one thing to be done; it was to move that the Conference stand adjourned.
“Come to luncheon on Sunday, Philip, and in the meantime there is no need to send the announcement to the papers.”
We hope you concur, my lords and gentlemen, that it was a decidedly useful card that the old fox, Destiny, had played for the Green Chartreuse.