CHAPTER XII
ARDORS AND ENDURANCES
I
“THERE,” cried Mary upon a note of triumph.
An excited wave of that delightful journal, the Morning Post, accompanied the pæan. And then it was hurled across the breakfast-table with deft precision into the lap of Milly.
“A marriage has been arranged,” said the courier of Hymen, “and will shortly take place between Charles, only son of the late Simeon Cheesewright and Mrs. Cheesewright, of Streatham Hill, and Mildred Ulrica, younger daughter of the late H. Blandish Wren and Mrs. Wren, 5, Victoria Mansions, Broad Place, Knightsbridge, W.”
Again arose the triumphant cry.
But Mrs. Wren, excavating the interior of a boiled egg, felt it to be her duty to check this unbridled enthusiasm. For some days past, with rather mournful iteration, she had let it be known that the impending announcement could not hope to receive her unqualified approval.
In the first place, as she frankly admitted, the Marquis had spoiled her. She had to confess that he had proved sadly lacking in backbone when brought to the test, but his sternest critics could not deny that “before everything he was a gentleman.”
Mrs. Wren ascribed her own pure taste in manhood to the fact that she had begun her career in the legitimate drama under the ægis of Mr. Painswick at the Theater Royal, Edinburgh. He, too, had been before everything a gentleman. Mr. Painswick had shaped Lydia Mifflin, as she was then, in his own inimitable mold. Upon a day she was to play Grace to his Digby Grant in “The Two Roses.” Then it was, as she had always felt, that she had touched her high-water mark; and the signal occasion was ever afterwards a beacon in her life. From that bright hour the Mr. Painswick standard had regulated the fair Lydia’s survey of the human male. Even the late lamented Mr. H. Blandish Wren, who was without a peer in “straight” comedy, whose Steggles in “London Assurance” had never been surpassed, even that paladin——. Still it isn’t quite fair to give away State secrets!
Mrs. Wren had once said of Charles Cheesewright “that he was not out of the top drawer.” However, if he was not of the caste of Vere de Vere she had to own that “he had points.” He was one of those young men who mean more than they say, who do better than they promise, who clothe their thoughts with actions rather than words. Also, he had two motors—a Daimler and a Rolls-Royce, he had rooms in the Albany, and though perhaps just a little inclined to overdress, he had such a sure taste in jewelry that he took his fiancée once a week to Cartier’s. And beyond everything else, he had the supreme advantage over my lord that he knew his own mind pretty clearly.
In the opinion of Princess Bedalia, Milly was an extremely lucky girl. Her young man was a simple, good fellow, honest as the day, he was incapable of any kind of meanness, he was very rich, and, what was hardly less important, he was very much in love. Milly, however, who had her mother’s knack of seeing men and events objectively, did not yield a final graceful assent until she extorted a promise from Mr. Charles that he would suffer the rape of his mustache, at the best a mere scrub of an affair, and that he would solemnly eschew yellow plush hats which made him look like a piano-tuner.
Still, on this heroic morning, in the middle of July, Mrs. Wren seemed less pleased with the world than she had reason to be. She did some sort of justice to her egg, but she wouldn’t look at the marmalade. If the truth must be told, a rather histrionic mind was still haunted by the shade of the noble Marquis. As Milly, in one of her moments of engaging candor, had told Mary already, as far as her mother was concerned Wrexham had simply queered the pitch for everybody.
Certainly that lady felt it to be her duty to rebuke Mary’s enthusiasm. There was nothing to make a song about. Milly was simply throwing herself away. If everyone had had their rights, she would have been Lady W., with a coronet on her notepaper. As it was, there was really nothing so very wonderful in being the wife of an overdressed tobacconist.
Mary cried “Shame,” and for her pains was sternly admonished. One who has made such hay of her own dazzling matrimonial chances must not venture to say a word. She who might have queened it among the highest in the land merely by substituting the big word “Yes” for the small word “No” must forever hold her peace on this vexed subject. But Mary was in such wild spirits at the announcement in the Morning Post that she refused to be browbeaten. She continued to sing the praises of “Charley” in spite of the clear annoyance of Mrs. Wren. The good lady was unable to realize that the girl was trying with might and main to stifle an ache that was almost intolerable.
“What ho!” Milly suddenly exclaimed, withdrawing a slightly retroussé but decidedly charming nose from Page 5 of the Morning Post, “so they’ve actually made Uncle Jacob a Bart.”
“My dear, you mean a baronet. Who?—made who a baronet?” Mrs. Wren laid down an imperious egg-spoon.
“Jacob Cheesewright, Esquire, M.P. for Bradbury, a rich manufacturer and prominent philanthropist. He’s in the honor list just issued by the King’s government.”
“Hooray!” Mary indulged in an enthusiastic wave of the tea-pot which happily was rather less than half full. “Which means, my dear Miss Wren, that one of these days there’s just a chance of your being my lady.”
“As though that could possibly matter!” cried Milly upon a note of the finest scorn imaginable.
“As though that could possibly matter!” Mary’s reproduction of the note in question was so humorously exact that it sent her victim into a fit of laughter.
But Mrs. Wren had her word to say on the subject. In her opinion, which was that of all sensible people, it mattered immensely.
“As though it could!” persisted Milly.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Wren, “that is shallow and ignorant. A baronetcy is a baronetcy. All people of breeding think so, anyway.”
The prospect of Uncle Jacob’s elevation had already been canvassed in Broad Place by Charles, his nephew. There was evidently something in the wind Whitehall way. Uncle Jacob had professed such a heroic indifference to Aunt Priscilla’s intelligent anticipations, that even Charles, his nephew, the simplest of simple souls, and a singularly unworldly young man, had been constrained to take an interest in the matter. As for Aunt Priscilla, she had been in such a state of flutter for the past two months, that the upper servants at Thole Park, Maidstone, even had visions of an earldom. Still, as Mr. Bryant, the butler, who in his distinguished youth had graduated at Bridport House, Mayfair, remarked to Mrs. Jennings the housekeeper in his statesmanlike way, “The Limit for baby’s underclothing is a baronetcy.”
II
Breakfast was just at an end when the trim parlormaid came into the room with a portentous-looking milliner’s box. It had that moment arrived, and on examination was found to contain a long coat of sable. This enchanting garment was with Mary’s best wishes for future happiness.
The donor was scolded roundly for her lavishness, but Milly was delighted by the gift, and Mrs. Wren, who had professed a stern determination to be no longer friends with Mary was rather touched. She well knew that she was a person “to bank on.” Besides, Mrs. Wren had an honest admiration for a fine talent and the unassumingness with which it was worn. She was incapable of making an enemy, for her one idea was to bring pleasure to other people. If ever human creature had been designed for happiness it must have been this girl, yet none could have been more fully bent on casting it willfully away.
As a fact, both Milly and her mother had been much troubled by the course of recent events. The previous afternoon Jack had taken a sad farewell of his friends in Broad Place. His passage was already booked in the Arcadia, which that very Saturday was to sail from Liverpool to New York. All his hopes had proved futile, all his arguments vain. Mary could not be induced to change her mind, which even at the eleventh hour he had ventured to think was just possible. In those last desperate moments, strength of will had enabled her to stick to her resolve. And in the absence of any intimation from Bridport House the Tenderfoot had been driven to carry out his threat. Yet up till the very last he had tried his utmost to persuade the girl he loved to merge her own life in his and accompany him to that new world where a career awaited him.
Perhaps these efforts had not been wholly reasonable. She had a real vocation for the theater if ever girl had, even if he had a real vocation for jobbing land. But allowance has to be made for a strong man in love. He was in sorry case, poor fellow, but her sense of duty to others was so strong, that even if it meant tragic unhappiness for both, as it surely must, she still sought the courage not to yield.
Such a decision was going to cost a very great deal. The previous afternoon, at the moment of parting, she had been fully aware of that, and hour by hour since she had realized it with a growing intensity. A stern effort of the will had been needed for Princess Bedalia to achieve her five hundred-and-sixty-second appearance that evening; she had spent a miserable night and now, in spite of the whole-heartedness with which she threw herself into Milly’s affairs, her laugh was pitched a little too high.
Since the visit to Bridport House she had come to know her own mind quite definitely. She was deeply in love with Jack, but unless the powers that were gave consent, she was now resolved never to marry him. In vain her friends continued to assure her that such an attitude was wrong. In vain the Tenderfoot declared it to be simply preposterous. Cost what it might, it had become a point of honor not to yield. To one of such clear vision, with, as it seemed, a rather uncanny insight into the workings of worlds beyond her own, it was of vital importance to study the interests of Bridport House.
Milly, even if very angry with her friend, could not help admiring this devotion to a quixotic sense of right, and the force of character which faced the issue so unflinchingly. She could not begin to understand the point of view, but she well knew what it was going to cost. And this morning, in spite of the pleasant and piquant drama of her own affairs, she could not rid herself of a feeling of distress on Mary’s account. Now it had come “to footing the bill,” a heavy price would have to be paid. And to Milly’s shrewd, engagingly material mind, the whole situation was exasperating.
So much for the thoughts uppermost in a loyal heart, while the misguided cause of them danced a pas seul in honor of the morning’s news. Milly, indeed, as she gazed in the glass over the chimney-piece to see what sort of a figure she made in the coat of sable, was much nearer tears than was either seemly or desirable. Still, in spite of that, she was able to muster a healthy curiosity upon the subject of her appearance. Fur has a trick of making common people look more common, and uncommon people look more uncommon, a trite fact of which Milly, the astute, was well aware. It was pleasant to find at any rate that a moment’s fleeting survey set all her doubts at rest upon that important point. The coat, a dream of beauty, became her quite miraculously. What a virtue there was in that deep, rich gloss! It gave new values to the eyes, the hair, the rounded chin, even the piquant nose of the wearer.
“You’re a dear!” Milly burst out, as she turned aside from the glass. But the person to whom the tribute was offered was quite absorbed in looking through the open window. Indeed, at that very moment a succession of royal toots from a motor horn ascended from the precincts of Broad Place, and Mary ran out on to the veranda with a view halloa. Then, her face full of humor and eloquence, she turned to look back into the room with the thrilling announcement: “Charley’s here!”
III
In two minutes, or rather less as time is measured in Elysium, Mr. Charles Cheesewright had entered that pleasant room with all the gay assurance of an accepted suitor.
“How awfully well it reads, doesn’t it?” he said, taking up the Morning Post with the fingers of a lover.
“Uncle Jacob’s baronetcy?” said Mary, with an eye of bold mischief.
“Oh, no! That’s a bit of a bore,” said Mr. Charles with a polite grimace.
“Why a bore?”
“Uncle Jacob has no heir and he’s trying to arrange for me to be the second bart.”
Princess Bedalia looked with a royal air at her favorite. “The truth is, dear Charles, you are shamelessly pleased about the whole matter.”
“Well, ye-es, I am.” Charles was hopelessly cornered, but like any other self-respecting Briton he was quite determined to put as good a face as possible upon a most damaging admission. “I am so awfully pleased for Milly. And, of course, for Uncle Jacob.”
“Not to mention Aunt Priscilla,” interposed Milly. It was her proud boast that she had already tried a fall with Aunt Priscilla, had tried it, moreover, pretty successfully. That lady, within her own orbit, was a great light, but Miss Wren had proved very well able for her so far. The Aunt Priscillas of the world were not going to harry Miss Wren, and it was by no means clear that this simple fact did not count as much to her honor in the sight of Uncle Jacob as it undoubtedly did in the sight of Charles, his nephew.
At any rate, Mr. Charles had come that morning to Broad Place on a diplomatic mission. It seemed that Uncle Jacob had made the sporting suggestion that the happy pair should motor down to Thole Park, Maidstone, for luncheon, that Charles, whose only merit in the sight of heaven was that he was “plus one” at North Berwick, should afterwards give careful consideration to the new nine-hole course which had been laid out in front of the house by the renowned Alec Thomson of Cupar, while Milly had a little heart-to-heart talk with Aunt Priscilla.
In a word, it began to look like being quite a good world for Charles and Milly. And even Mrs. Wren was constrained to admit it. Sheer human merit was becoming a little too much for the higher criticism. And daily these twain were discovering new beauties in each other. For one thing, Charles’s upper lip was now as smooth as a baby’s, and a mouth so firm and manly was thereby disclosed that it really seemed a pity to hide it. Moreover, for a fortnight past, in subtle, unsuspected ways he had been bursting forth into fine qualities. This morning, for instance, he seemed to have added a cubit to his stature. He was in the habit of saying in regard to himself that “he was not a flyer,” but really if you saw him at the angle Milly did, and you came to think about him in her rational manner, it began to seem after all he might turn out a bit of one. If only he could be persuaded to give up his piano-tuner’s hat there would be hope for him anyway.
IV
Milly had scarcely left the room to put on her things before she was back in it. And she returned in such a state of excitement that she could hardly speak. The cause of it, moreover, following hard upon her heels, was a wholly unexpected visitor.
“He was just coming in at the front door,” Milly explained, as soon as the state of her emotions would allow her to do so. “I was never so taken aback in my life. Why, a feather would have downed me.”
In that moment of drama it was not too much to say that a feather would have had an equal effect upon Mary. If human resolve stood for anything, and it stood for a good deal in the case of Jack Dinneford, he should have been on his way to Liverpool. At six o’clock the previous evening they had parted heroically, not expecting to see each other again. For seventeen hours or so, they had been steeling their wills miserably. About 2 a.m., the hour when ghosts walk and pixies dance the foxtrot, both had felt that, after all, they would not be strong enough to bear the self-inflicted blow. But daylight had found them true to the faith that was in them. She had just enough fortitude not to telephone a change of mind, he was just man enough to decide not to miss the 10.5 from Euston.
Still, when the best has been said for it, the human will is but a trivial affair. Man is not much when the Fates begin to weave their magic web. A taxi was actually at the door of Jack’s chambers, nay, his luggage had even been strapped into the front of the vehicle, when there came an urgent message by telephone from Bridport House to say that his Grace most particularly desired that Mr. Dinneford and Miss Lawrence would come to luncheon at half-past one.
What was a man to do? To obey the command was, of course, to forgo all hope of sailing by the Arcadia. To ignore it was to forgo all hope of entering Elysium. In justice to Mr. Dinneford it took him rather less than one minute to decide. His servant was promptly ordered to unship his gear and dismiss the taxi.
It was the nearest possible shave. His Grace had run matters so fine, that had he delayed his communication another two minutes, the Tenderfoot would have been on his way to New York. Some miraculous change of plan had occurred at the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour. Exactly what it was must now be the business of a distracted lover to find out.
Jack’s totally unexpected return to Broad Place was in itself an epic. And his unheralded appearance had such an effect upon Mary, upon Milly, upon Mrs. Wren, that he regretted not having had the forethought to telephone his change of plans. He came as a bolt from the blue, bringing with him an immensely difficult moment; and the presence of Mr. Charles Cheesewright, of whom Jack only knew by hearsay, undoubtedly added to its embarrassments.
Before anything could be done, even before the excited Milly could interpose a “Tell me, is it all right?” it was necessary for these paladins to be made known to each other. There was wariness on the part of both in the process. Neither was quite able to accept the other on trust. But a brief taking of the moral temperature by two members of the sex which inclines to reserve convinced the one that Wrexham’s successor had the air and the look of a good chap, and what was quite as important, convinced the other that the heir to the dukedom was not the least of a swankpot. All of which was so far excellent.
A desire to ask a thousand questions was simply burning holes in Milly. But she had to endure the torments of martyrdom. Questions could not be asked in the presence of Charles. It called for a great effort to behave as if the bottom had not fallen out of the universe. In the most heroic way she kept the conversation at a diplomatic level, remarking among other things that it was an ideal day for motoring, which finally reminded her that she must really go and put on her hat.
“And don’t forget a thick veil,” Mary called after her, in a voice of superhuman detachment.
The business of not letting the innocent Charles into the secret was a superb piece of comedy. There is really no need to write novels or to go to the play. They are the stuff our daily lives are made of. The way in which these four people set themselves to hoodwink a Simple Simon of a fifth was quite a rich bit of humor. Little recked Mr. Charles Cheesewright that the heavens had just opened in Broad Place.
At last Milly returned cap-à-pie, and then by the mercy of Divine Providence Mr. Charles suddenly remembered that it was a long way to Maidstone and that it was now a quarter past eleven.
“I’m quite ready when you are,” said Milly to her cavalier, with all the guile of a young female serpent. Mr. Charles shook hands gravely and Britishly all round, and Mary wished them a pleasant journey, and Mrs. Wren “hoped they would wrap up well,” and then Milly stepped deftly back three paces from the door, saying, “You know the way down, Charley,” as clear an intimation as any young man could desire that it was up to him to lead it.
Charles led the way accordingly, and then came Milly’s chance.
“What has happened?”
“Uncle Albert has sent for us.”
“For both?”
“For both!”
Just for a moment Mary’s feelings nearly proved too much for her. Having come to despair of Bridport House, there had been no reason to hope for this sudden change of front. She simply couldn’t fathom it. That was also true of Milly. And as the significance of the whole thing rushed upon that imperious creature, she turned to Mary in the manner of Helen, the Spartan Queen. “A last word to you, Miss Lawrence!” Her voice trembled with excitement. “If you do anything idiotic, I’ll never speak to you again. And that’s official!”
V
As the crow flies, it is just nine minutes from Broad Place to Bridport House. Therefore they had time to burn. And as it was such a perfect day for motoring, it was a day equally well adapted for sitting under the trees in the Park.
Force majeure was applied so vigorously by Mrs. Wren, with timely aid from the Tenderfoot, that Mary was not given half a chance to jib at this new and amazing turn of fortune’s shuttle. She must wear her new hat with the roses—Mrs. Wren. She must wear Raquin’s biscuit-colored masterpiece—Mr. Dinneford. Her diamond earrings thought Mrs. Wren. Mr. Dinneford thought her old-fashioned seed pearl. There was never really any question of her going to luncheon at Bridport House at 1.30. Her friends and counselors did not even allow it to arise. The only thing that need trouble her was how she looked when she got there.
En route she made a picture of immense distinction beyond a doubt. Whether it was the hat with the roses, or the sunshine of July, or the dress of simple muslin, which on second thoughts seemed more in keeping with the occasion than the Raquin masterpiece, and in the opinion of Mrs. Wren had the further merit “that it gave her eyes a chance,” or her favorite earrings which Aunt Harriet had given her as a little girl; or the fact that Jack walked beside her, and that Happiness is still the greatest of Court painters, who shall say?—but in the course of a pilgrimage from Albert Gate to the Marble Arch and half way back again, she certainly attracted more than her share of the public notice. In fact, with her fine height and her lithe grace she actually provoked a hook-nosed, hard-featured dame in a sort of high-hung barouche to turn in the most deliberate manner and look at her. Or it may have been because the Tenderfoot in passing had raised a reluctant, semi-ironical hat.
“Aunt Charlotte,” said he.
“I hope Aunt Charlotte is not as disagreeable as she looks,” was Mary’s thought, but doubtless remembering in the nick of time Talleyrand’s famous maxim, she merely said, “What a clever face!”
“Is it?” said Jack, unconcernedly. But his mind was on other things, perhaps.
As a matter of fact, it was on other things.
“Let’s sit here five minutes,” he said, as they came to a couple of vacant chairs. “Then I’ll tell you a bit of news.”
They sat accordingly. And the bit of news was the following:
“Muriel’s hooked it.”
Respect for her mother tongue caused Mary to demand a repetition of this cryptic statement.
“Hooked it with her Radical,” Jack amplified. “They were married yesterday morning, quite quietly, ‘owing to the indisposition of his Grace,’ the papers say. And they are now in Scotland on their honeymoon.”
“Let us hope they’ll be happy,” said Mary. “She has a very brilliant husband, at any rate.”
“Not a doubt of that. If brains breed happiness, they’ll be all right.”
But do brains breed happiness? that was the question in their minds at the moment. Aunt Charlotte had brains undoubtedly, but as she passed them three minutes since no one could have said that she looked happy. The Duke had brains, but few would have said that he was happy. Mary herself had brains, and they had brought her within an ace of wrecking her one chance of real happiness.
They were in the midst of this philosophical inquiry, when Chance, that prince of magicians, gave the kaleidoscope a little loving shake, and hey! presto! the other side of the picture was laughingly presented to them.
A rather lop-sided young man in a brown bowler hat was marching head in air along the gravel in front of them. One shoulder was a little higher than its neighbor, his clothes looked shabby in the sun of July, his gait was slightly grotesque, yet upon his face was a smile of rare complacency. In one hand he held a small girl of five, and in the other a small boy to match her; and that may have been why at this precise moment he looked as if he had just acquired a controlling interest in the planet. And yet there must have been some deeper, subtler reason for this young man’s air of power mingled with beatitude.
Rather mean of mansion as he was, it was impossible for two shrewd spectators of the human comedy on the Park chairs to ignore him as he swung gayly by. In spite of his impossible hat and his weird trousers, the mere look on his face was almost cosmic in its significance, he was so clearly on terms with heaven. But in any case he would have forcibly entered their scheme of existence. Just as he came level with them he chanced to lower his gaze abruptly and by doing so caught the fascinated eyes of Mary fixed upon his face.
“Good morning, Miss Lawrence. What a nice day!”
He was not in a position to take off his hat, but he enforced a hearty greeting with a superb bow, and passed jauntily on.
The Tenderfoot could not help being amused. “Who’s your friend?” He turned a quizzical eye upon a countenance glowing with mischief.
“That’s Alf.”
“In the name of all that’s wonderful, who is Alf?” The tone was expostulation all compact, but as mirth was frankly uppermost, even the most sensitive democrat could hardly have resented it.
“He’s a man on a newspaper.”
“I see,” said the Tenderfoot. But somehow it didn’t explain him.
“An old friend, my dear, and he’s now the Press, with a capital letter. The other day he interviewed me for his paper.”
“How could you let him?” gasped the Tenderfoot.
“For the sake of old times.” Suddenly she loosed her famous note. “That little man is in my stars. He dates back to my earliest flapperdom, when my great ambition was to kill him. He was the greengrocer’s boy in the next street, and he used to call after me:
“‘I am Mary Plantagenet;
Who would imagine it?
Eyes full of liquid fire,
Hair bright as jet;
No one knows my hist’ry,
I am wrapt in myst’ry,
I am the She-ro
Of a penny novelette.’”
“Well, I hope,” said the Tenderfoot, “you jolly well lammed into him for such a piece of infernal cheek.”
“Yes, I did,” she confessed. “One day I turned on him and boxed his ears, and I’m bound to say he’s been very respectful ever since. It was very amusing to be reminded of his existence when he turned up the other day. He paid me all sorts of extravagant compliments; he seems to hold himself responsible for any success I may have had.”
“Nice of him.”
“He says he has written me up for the past two years; and that when he edits a paper of his own, and he’s quite made up his mind that it won’t be long before he does, I can have my portrait in it as often as I want.”
“My Lord!”
“All very honestly meant,” laughed Mary Plantagenet. “It is very charming of Alf—a nom de guerre, by the way. His real name is Michael Conner, but now he’s Alf of the Millennium. And the other day at our interview, when he came to talk of old times, somehow I couldn’t help loving him.”
“What, love—that!”
“There’s something to love in everybody, my dear. It’s really very easy to like people if you hunt for the positive—if that’s not a high brow way of putting it! The other day when Alf began to talk of his ambitions, and of the wife he had married, and of the little Alfs and the little Alfesses, I thought the more there are of you the merrier, because after all you are rather fine, you are good for the community, and you make this old world go round. Anyhow we began as enemies, and now we are friends ‘for keeps,’ and both Alf and I are so much the better for knowing it.”
“I wonder!”
“Of course we are. And when Alf is a great editor, as he means to be, and he is able to carry out his great scheme of founding a Universal Love and Admiration Society, for the purpose of bringing out the best in everybody, including foreign nations—his very own idea, and to my mind a noble one—he has promised to make me an original member.”
“A very original member!” The Tenderfoot scoffed.
But sitting there in the eye of the morning, with the gentle leaves whispering over his head, and the finest girl in the land by his side drawing a fanciful picture of “Alf” on the gravel with the point of her sunshade, he was not in the mood for mockery. The world was so full of a number of things, that it seemed but right and decent to have these large and generous notions. Let every atom and molecule that made up the pageant of human experience overflow in love and admiration of its neighbor. He was a dud himself, his dwelling-place was en parterre, yet as heaven was above him and She was at his elbow, there was no denying that the little man who had just passed out of sight had laid hold somehow of a divine idea.
Yes, the ticket for the future was Universal Love and Admiration, at any rate for the heirs of the good God. Not a doubt that! He didn’t pretend to be a philosopher, or a poet, but even he could see that yonder little scug in the brown pot hat was a big proposition.
“I wonder,” he mused aloud, “how the little bounder came to think of that?”
“He says it came to him in his sleep.” And the artist at his elbow gave one final masterful curl to the amazing trousers of the latest benefactor of the human species.