PART XVIII
THE LAST STRAW
After Spurrell's ingenuous comments upon the volume in his hand, a painful silence ensues, which no one has sufficient presence of mind to break for several seconds.
Miss Spelwane (to herself). Not Clarion Blair! Not even a poet! I – I could slap him!
Pilliner (to himself). Poor dear Vivien! But if people will insist on patting a strange poet, they mustn't be surprised if they get a nasty bite!
Lady Maisie (to herself). He didn't write Andromeda! Then he hasn't got my letter after all! And I've been such a brute to the poor dear man! How lucky I said nothing about it to Gerald!
Captain Thicknesse (to himself). So he ain't the bard!.. Now I see why Maisie's been behavin' so oddly all the evenin'; she spotted him, and didn't like to speak out. Tried to give me a hint, though. Well, I shall stay out my leave now!
Lady Rhoda (to herself). I thought all along he seemed too good a sort for a poet!
Archie (to himself). It's all very well; but how about that skit he went up to write on us? He must be a poet of sorts.
Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris (to herself). This is fearfully puzzling. What made him say that about "Lady Grisoline"?
The Bishop (to himself). A crushing blow for the Countess; but not unsalutary. I am distinctly conscious of feeling more kindly disposed to that young man. Now why?
[He ponders.
Lady Lullington (to herself). I thought this young man was going to read us some more of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us about his bull-dog. As if anybody cared what he called it!
Lord Lullington (to himself). Uncommonly awkward, this! If I could catch Laura's eye – but I suppose it would hardly be decent to go just yet.
Lady Culverin (to herself). Can Rohesia have known this? What possible object could she have had in – And oh, dear, how disgusted Rupert will be!
Sir Rupert (to himself). Seems a decent young chap enough! Too bad of Rohesia to let him in for this. I don't care a straw what he is – he's none the worse for not being a poet.
Lady Cantire (to herself). What is he maundering about? It's utterly inconceivable that I should have made any mistake. It's only too clear what the cause is —Claret!
Spurrell (aloud, good-humouredly). Too bad of you to try and spoof me like this before everybody, Miss Spelwane! I don't know whose idea it was to play me such a trick, but —
Miss Spelwane (indistinctly). Please understand that nobody here had the least intention of playing a trick upon you!
Spurrell. Well, if you say so, of course – But it looked rather like it, asking me to read when I've about as much poetry in me as – as a pot hat! Still, if I'm wanted to read aloud, I shall be happy to —
Lady Culverin (hastily). Indeed, indeed, Mr. Spurrell, we couldn't think of troubling you any more under the circumstances! (In desperation.) Vivien, my dear, won't you sing something?
[The company echo the request with unusual eagerness.
Spurrell (to himself, during Miss Spelwane's song). Wonder what's put them off being read to all of a sudden? My elocution mayn't be first-class, exactly, but still – (As his eye happens to rest on the binding of the volume on his knee.) Hullo! This cover's pink, with silver things, not unlike cutlets, on it! Didn't Emma ask me – ? By George, if it's that! I may get down to the housekeeper's room, after all! As soon as ever this squalling stops I'll find out; I can't go on like this! (Miss Spelwane leaves the piano; everybody plunges feverishly into conversation on the first subject – other than poetry or dogs – that presents itself, until Lord and Lady Lullington set a welcome example of departure.) Better wait till these county nobs have cleared, I suppose – there goes the last of 'em – now for it!.. (He pulls himself together, and approaches his host and hostess.) Hem, Sir Rupert, and your ladyship, it's occurred to me that it's just barely possible you may have got it in your heads that I was something in the poetical way.
Sir Rupert (to himself). Not this poor young chap's fault; must let him down as easily as possible! (Aloud.) Not at all – not at all! Ha – assure you we quite understand; no necessity to say another word about it.
Spurrell (to himself). Just my luck! They quite understand! No housekeeper's room for me this journey! (Aloud.) Of course I knew the Countess, there, and Lady Maisie, were fully aware all along – (To Lady Maisie, as stifled exclamations reach his ear.) You were, weren't you?
Lady Maisie (hastily). Yes, yes, Mr. Spurrell. Of course! It's all perfectly right!
Spurrell (to the others). You see, I should never have thought of coming in as a visitor if it hadn't been for the Countess; she would have it that it was all right, and that I needn't be afraid I shouldn't be welcome.
Lady Culverin. To be sure – any friend of my sister-in-law's —
Lady Cantire. Albinia, I have refrained from speech as long as possible; but this is really too much! You don't suppose I should have introduced Mr. Spurrell here unless I had had the strongest reasons for knowing, however he may be pleased to mystify us now, that he, and nobody else, is the author of Andromeda! And I, for one, absolutely decline to believe in this preposterous story of his about a bull-dog.
Spurrell. But your ladyship must have known! Why, you as good as asked me on the way here to put you down for a bull-pup!
Lady Cantire. Never, never! A bull-pup is the last creature I should ever dream of coveting. You were obliging enough to ask me to accept a presentation copy of your verses.
Spurrell. Was I? I don't exactly see how I could have been, considering I never made a rhyme in my life!
Sir Rupert. There, there, Rohesia, it was your mistake; but as we are indebted to it for the pleasure of making Mr. Spurrell's acquaintance —
Lady Cantire. I am not in the habit of making mistakes, Rupert. I don't know what you and Albinia and Maisie may know that I am in ignorance of, but, since you seem to have been aware from the first that Mr. Spurrell was not the poet you had invited here to meet me, will you kindly explain what has become of the real author?
Sir Rupert. My dear Rohesia, I don't know and I don't care!
Lady Cantire. There you are wrong, Rupert, because it's obvious that if he is not Mr. Spurrell, the real poet's absence has to be accounted for in some way.
Spurrell. By Jove, I believe I can put you on the track. I shouldn't wonder if he's the party these dress clothes of mine belong to! I dare say you may have noticed they don't look as if they were made for me?
Lady Cantire (closing her eyes). Pray let us avoid any sartorial questions! We are waiting to hear about this person.
Spurrell. Well, I found I'd got on his things by mistake, and I went up as soon as I could after dessert to my room to take 'em off, and there he was, with a waste-paper basket on his head —
Lady Cantire. A waste-paper basket on his head! And pray what should he have that for?
Spurrell. I'm no wiser than your ladyship there. All I know is he said he wouldn't take it off till he saw me. And I never saw any one in such a mess with ink and flour as he was!
Lady Cantire. Ink and flour, indeed! This rigmarole gets more ridiculous every moment! You can't seriously expect any one here to believe it!
[Archie discreetly retires to the smoking-room.
Spurrell. Well, I rather think somebody must have fixed up a booby-trap for me, you know, and he happened to go in first and get the benefit of it. And he was riled, very naturally, thinking I'd done it, but after we'd had a little talk together, he calmed down and said I might keep his clothes, which I thought uncommonly good-natured of him, you know. By the way, he gave me his card. Here it is, if your ladyship would like to see it.
[He hands it to Lady Culverin.
Lady Culverin. "Mr. Undershell!"… Rohesia, that is Clarion Blair! I knew it was something ending in "ell." (To Spurrell.) And you say Mr. Undershell is here – in this house?
Spurrell. Not now. He's gone by this time.
The Others (in dismay). Gone!
Spurrell. He said he was leaving at once. If he'd only told me how it was, I'd have —
Lady Cantire. I don't believe a single word of all this! If Mr. Spurrell is not Clarion Blair, let him explain how he came to be coming down to Wyvern this afternoon!
Spurrell. If your ladyship doesn't really know, you had better ask Sir Rupert; he'll tell you it's all right.
Lady Cantire. Then perhaps you will be good enough to enlighten us, Rupert?
Sir Rupert (driven into a corner). Why, 'pon my word, I'm bound to say that I'm just as much in the dark as anybody else, if it comes to that!
Spurrell (eagerly). But you wired me to come, sir! About a horse of yours! I've been wondering all the evening when you'd tell me I could go round and have a look at him. I'm here instead of Mr. Spavin —now do you understand, Sir Rupert? I'm the vet.
[Suppressed sensation.
Sir Rupert (to himself). This is devilish awkward! Don't quite know what to do. (Aloud.) To – to be sure you are! Of course! That's it, Rohesia! Mr. Spurrell came down to see a horse, and we shall be very glad to have the benefit of his opinion by and bye.
[He claps him amicably on the shoulder.
Lady Cantire (in a sepulchral tone). Albinia, I think I will go to bed.
[She withdraws.
Sir Rupert (to himself). There'll be no harm in letting him stay, now he is here. If Rohesia objects, she's got nobody but herself to blame for it!
Spurrell (to himself). They won't want to keep me upstairs much longer after this! (Tredwell enters, and seems to have something of importance to communicate to Sir Rupert in private.) I wonder what the dooce is up now!
[Partial reaction in company.
PART XIX
UNEARNED INCREMENT
Sir Rupert (to Tredwell). Well, what is it?
Tredwell (in an undertone). With reference to the party, Sir Rupert, as represents himself to have come down to see the 'orse, I —
Sir Rupert (aloud). You mean Mr. Spurrell? It's all right. Mr. Spurrell will see the horse to-morrow. (Tredwell disguises his utter bewilderment.) By the way, we expected a Mr. – What did you say the name was, my dear?.. Undershell? To be sure, a Mr. Undershell, to have been here in time for dinner. Do you know why he has been unable to come before this?
Tredwell (to himself). Do I know? Oh, Lor! (Aloud.) I – I believe he have arrived, Sir Rupert.
Sir Rupert. So I understand from Mr. Spurrell. Is he here still?
Tredwell. He is, Sir Rupert. I – I considered it my dooty not to allow him to leave the house, not feeling —
Sir Rupert. Quite right, Tredwell. I should have been most seriously annoyed if I had found that a guest we were all anxiously expecting had left the Court, owing to some fancied – Where is he now?
Tredwell (faintly). In – in the Verney Chamber. Leastways —
Sir Rupert. Ah. (He glances at Spurrell.) Then where – ? But that can be arranged. Go up and explain to Mr. Undershell that we have only this moment heard of his arrival; say we understand that he has been obliged to come by a later train, and that we shall be delighted to see him, just as he is.
Spurrell (to himself). He was worth looking at just as he was, when I saw him!
Pilliner (to himself). By a later train? Then, how the deuce did his clothes – ? Oh, well, however it was, it don't concern me.
Tredwell. Very good, Sir Rupert. (To himself, as he departs.) If I'm not precious careful over this job, it may cost me my situation!
Spurrell. Sir Rupert, I've been thinking that, after what's occurred, it would probably be more satisfactory to all parties if I shifted my quarters, and – took my meals in the housekeeper's room.
[Lady Maisie and Lady Rhoda utter inarticulate protests.
Sir Rupert. My dear sir, not on any account – couldn't hear of it! My wife, I'm sure, will say the same.
Lady Culverin (with an effort). I hope Mr. Spurrell will continue to be our guest precisely as before – that is, if he will forgive us for putting him into another room.
Spurrell (to himself). It's no use; I can't get rid of 'em; they stick to me like a lot of blooming burrs! (Aloud, in despair.) Your ladyship is very good, but – Well, the fact is, I've only just found out that a young lady I've long been deeply attached to is in this very house. She's a Miss Emma Phillipson – maid, so I understand, to Lady Maisie – and, without for one moment wishing to draw any comparisons, or to seem ungrateful for all the friendliness I've received, I really and truly would feel myself more comfortable in a circle where I could enjoy rather more of my Emma's society than I can here!
Sir Rupert (immensely relieved). Perfectly natural! and – hum – sorry as we are to lose you, Mr. Spurrell, we – ah – mustn't be inconsiderate enough to keep you here a moment longer. I've no doubt you will find the young lady in the housekeeper's room – any one will tell you where it is… Good night to you, then; and, remember, we shall expect to see you in the field on Tuesday.
Lady Maisie. Good night, Mr. Spurrell, and – and I'm so very glad – about Emma, you know. I hope you will both be very happy.
[She shakes hands warmly.
Lady Rhoda. So do I. And mind you don't forget about that liniment, you know.
Captain Thicknesse (to himself). Maisie don't care a hang! And I was ass enough to fancy – But there, that's all over now!
In the Verney Chamber.
Undershell (in the dressing-room, to himself). I wonder how long I've been locked up here – it seems hours! I almost hope they've forgotten me altogether… Some one has come in… If it should be Sir Rupert!! Great heavens, what a situation to be found in by one's host!.. Perhaps it's only that fellow Spurrell; if so, there's a chance. (The door is unlocked by Tredwell, who has lighted the candles on the dressing table.) It's the butler again. Well, I shall soon know the worst! (He steps out, blinking, with as much dignity as possible.) Perhaps you will kindly inform me why I have been subjected to this indignity?
Tredwell (in perturbation). I think, Mr. Undershell, sir, in common fairness, you'll admit as you've mainly yourself to thank for any mistakes that have occurred; for which I 'asten to express my pussonal regret.
Undershell. So long as you realise that you have made a mistake, I am willing to overlook it, on condition that you help me to get away from this place without your master and mistress's knowledge.
Tredwell. It's too late, sir. They know you're 'ere!
Undershell. They know! Then there's no time to be lost. I must leave this moment!
Tredwell. No, sir, excuse me; but you can't hardly do that now. I was to say that Sir Rupert and the ladies would be glad to see you in the droring-room himmediate.
Undershell. Man alive! do you imagine anything would induce me to meet them now, after the humiliations I have been compelled to suffer under this roof?
Tredwell. If you would prefer anything that has taken place in the room, sir, or in the stables to be 'ushed up —
Undershell. Prefer it! If it were only possible! But they know – they know! What's the use of talking like that?
Tredwell (to himself). I know where I am now! (Aloud.) They know nothink up to the present, Mr. Undershell, nor yet I see no occasion why they should – leastwise from any of Us.
Undershell. But they know I'm here; how am I to account for all the time – ?
Tredwell. Excuse me, sir. I thought of that, and it occurred to me as it might be more agreeable to your feelings, sir, if I conveyed an impression that you had only just arrived – 'aving missed your train, sir.
Undershell (overjoyed). How am I to thank you? that was really most discreet of you – most considerate!
Tredwell. I am truly rejoiced to hear you say so, sir. And I'll take care nothing leaks out. And if you'll be kind enough to follow me to the droring-room, the ladies are waiting to see you.
Undershell (to himself). I may actually meet Lady Maisie Mull after all! (Aloud, recollecting his condition.) But I can't go down like this. I'm in such a horrible mess!
Tredwell. I reelly don't perceive it, sir; except a little white on your coat-collar behind. Allow me – there it's off now. (He gives him a hand-glass) If you'd like to see for yourself.
Undershell (to himself as he looks). A slight pallor, that's all. I am more presentable than I could have hoped. (Aloud.) Have the kindness to take me to Lady Culverin at once.
In the Chinese Drawing-room. A few minutes later.
Sir Rupert (to Undershell, after the introductions have been gone through). And so you missed the 4.55 and had to come on by the 7.30 which stops everywhere, eh?
Undershell. It – it certainly does stop at most stations.
Sir Rupert. And how did you get on to Wyvern – been here long?
Undershell. N – not particularly long.
Sir Rupert. Fact is, you see, we made a mistake. Very ridiculous, but we've been taking that young fellow, Mr. Spurrell, for you all this time; so we never thought of inquiring whether you'd come or not. It was only just now he told us how he'd met you in the Verney Chamber, and the very handsome way, if you will allow me to say so, in which you had tried to efface yourself.
Undershell (to himself). I didn't expect him to take that view of it! (Aloud.) I – I felt I had no alternative.
[Lady Maisie regards him with admiration.
Sir Rupert. You did an uncommon fine thing, sir, and I'm afraid you received treatment on your arrival which you had every right to resent.
Undershell (to himself). I hoped he didn't know about the housekeeper's room! (Aloud.) Please say no more about it, Sir Rupert. I know now that you were entirely innocent of any —
Sir Rupert (horrified). Good Gad! you didn't suppose I had any hand in fixing up that booby-trap, or whatever it was, did you? Young fellows will get bear-fighting and playing idiotic tricks on one another, and you seem to have been the victim – that's how it was. Have you had anything to eat since you came? If not —
Undershell (hastily). Thank you, I – I have dined. (To himself.) So he doesn't know where, after all! I will spare him that.
Sir Rupert. Got some food at Shuntingbridge, eh? Afraid they gave you a wretched dinner?
Undershell. Quite the reverse, I assure you. (To himself.) Considering that it came from his own table!
Pilliner (to himself). I still don't understand how his clothes – (Aloud.) Did you send your portmanteau on ahead, then, or what?
Undershell (blankly). Send my port – ? I don't understand.
Pilliner. Oh, I only asked, because the other man said he was wearing your things.
Sir Rupert (as Undershell remains speechless). I see how it was – perfectly simple – rush for the train – porter put your luggage in – you got left behind, wasn't that it?
Undershell. I – I certainly did get separated from my portmanteau, somehow, and I suppose it must have arrived before me. (To himself.) Considering the pace of the fly-horse, I think I am justified in assuming that!
Pilliner (to himself). Ass I was not to hold my tongue!
Lady Maisie (in an undertone, to Captain Thicknesse). Gerald, you remember what I said some time ago – about poetry and poets?
Captain Thicknesse. Perfectly. And I thought you were quite right.
Lady Maisie. I was quite wrong. I didn't know what I was talking about. I do now. Good night. (She crosses to Undershell.) Good night, Mr. Blair, I'm so very glad we have met – at last!
[She goes.
Undershell (to himself, rapturously). She's not freckled; she's not even sandy. She's lovely! And, by some unhoped-for good fortune, all this has only raised me in her eyes. I am more than compensated!
Captain Thicknesse (to himself). I may just as well get back to Aldershot to-morrow —now. I'll go and prepare Lady C.'s mind, in case. It's hard luck; just when everything seemed goin' right! I'd give somethin' to have the other bard back, I know. It's no earthly use my tryin' to stand against this one!
PART XX
DIFFERENT PERSONS HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS
Lady Maisie's Room at Wyvern. Time —Saturday night, about 11.30.
Lady Maisie (to Phillipson, who is brushing her hair). You are sure mamma isn't expecting me? (Irresolutely.) Perhaps I had better just run in and say good night.
Phillipson. I wouldn't recommend it, really, my lady; her ladyship seems a little upset in her nerves this evening.
Lady Maisie (to herself). Il-y-a de quoi! (Aloud, relieved.) It might only disturb her, certainly… I hope they are making you comfortable here, Phillipson?
Phillipson. Very much so indeed, thank you, my lady. The tone of the room downstairs is most superior.
Lady Maisie. That's satisfactory. And I hear you have met an old admirer of yours here – Mr. Spurrell, I mean.
Phillipson. We did happen to encounter each other in one of the galleries, my lady, just for a minute; though I shouldn't have expected him to allude to it!
Lady Maisie. Indeed! And why not?
Phillipson. Mr. James Spurrell appears to have elevated himself to a very different sphere from what he occupied when I used to know him, my lady; though how and why he comes to be where he is, I don't rightly understand myself at present.
Lady Maisie (to herself). And no wonder! I feel horribly guilty! (Aloud.) You mustn't blame poor Mr. Spurrell, Phillipson; he couldn't help it!
Phillipson (with studied indifference). I'm not blaming him, my lady. If he prefers the society of his superiors to mine, he's very welcome to do so; there's others only too willing to take his place!
Lady Maisie. Surely none who would be as fond of you or make so good a husband, Phillipson!
Phillipson. That's as maybe, my lady. There was one young man that travelled down in the same compartment, and sat next me at supper in the room. I could see he took a great fancy to me from the first, and his attentions were really quite pointed. I am sure I couldn't bring myself to repeat his remarks, they were so flattering!
Lady Maisie. Don't you think you will be rather a foolish girl if you allow a few idle compliments from a stranger to outweigh such an attachment as Mr. Spurrell seems to have for you?
Phillipson. If he's found new friends, my lady, I consider myself free to act similarly.
Lady Maisie. Then you don't know? He told us quite frankly this evening that he had only just discovered you were here, and would much prefer to be where you were. He went down to the housekeeper's room on purpose.
Phillipson (moved). It's the first I've heard of it, my lady. It must have been after I came up. If I'd only known he'd behave like that!
Lady Maisie (instructively). You see how loyal he is to you. And now, I suppose, he will find he has been supplanted by this new acquaintance – some smooth-tongued, good-for-nothing valet, I dare say?
Phillipson (injured). Oh, my lady, indeed he wasn't a man! But there was nothing serious between us – at least, on my side – though he certainly did go on in a very sentimental way himself. However, he's left the Court by now, that's one comfort! (To herself.) I wish now I'd said nothing about him to Jem. If he was to get asking questions downstairs – He always was given to jealousy – reason or none!
[A tap is heard at the door.
Lady Rhoda (outside). Maisie, may I come in? if you've done your hair, and sent away your maid. (She enters.) Ah, I see you haven't.
Lady Maisie. Don't run away, Rhoda; my maid has just done. You can go now, Phillipson.
Lady Rhoda (to herself, as she sits down). Phillipson! So that's the young woman that funny vet man prefers to us! H'm, can't say I feel flattered!
Phillipson (to herself, as she leaves the room). This must be the Lady Rhoda, who was making up to my Jem! He wouldn't have anything to say to her, though; and, now I see her, I am not surprised at it!
[She goes. A pause.
Lady Rhoda (crossing her feet on the fender). Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', can we?
Lady Maisie (taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf). Not altogether. Has – anything fresh happened since I left?
Lady Rhoda. Nothing particular. Archie apologised to this new man in the billiard-room. For the booby trap. We all told him he'd got to. And Mr. Carrion Bear, or Blundershell, or whatever he calls himself —you know – was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that I really thought poor dear old Archie would have wound up his apology by punchin' his head for him. Strikes me, Maisie, that mop-headed minstrel boy is a decided change for the worse. Doesn't it you?
Lady Maisie (toying with the screen). How do you mean, Rhoda?
Lady Rhoda. I meantersay I call Mr. Spurrell – Well, he's real, anyway – he's a man, don't you know. As for the other, so feeble of him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for everything! Now, wasn't it?
Lady Maisie. Poets are dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual – it's their nature.
Lady Rhoda. Then they should stay at home. Just see what a hopeless muddle he's got us all into! I declare I feel as if anybody might turn into somebody else on the smallest provocation after this. I know poor Vivien Spelwane will be worryin' her pillows like rats most of the night, and I rather fancy it will be a close time for poets with your dear mother, Maisie, for some time to come. All this silly little man's fault!
Lady Maisie. No, Rhoda. Not his —ours. Mine and mamma's. We ought to have felt from the first that there must be some mistake, that poor Mr. Spurrell couldn't possibly be a poet! I don't know, though – people generally are unlike what you'd expect from their books. I believe they do it on purpose! Not that that applies to Mr. Blair; he is one's idea of what a poet should be. If he hadn't arrived when he did, I don't think I could ever have borne to read another line of poetry as long as I lived!
Lady Rhoda. I say! Do you call him as good-lookin' as all that?
Lady Maisie. I was not thinking about his looks, Rhoda – it's his conduct that's so splendid.
Lady Rhoda. His conduct? Don't see anything splendid in missin' a train. I could do it myself if I tried.
Lady Maisie. Well, I wish I could think there were many men capable of acting so nobly and generously as he did.
Lady Rhoda. As how?
Lady Maisie. You really don't see! Well, then, you shall. He arrives late, and finds that somebody else is here already in his character. He makes no fuss; manages to get a private interview with the person who is passing as himself; when, of course, he soon discovers that poor Mr. Spurrell is as much deceived as anybody else. What is he to do? Humiliate the unfortunate man by letting him know the truth? Mortify my uncle and aunt by a public explanation before a whole dinner-party? That is what a stupid or a selfish man might have done, almost without thinking. But not Mr. Blair. He has too much tact, too much imagination, too much chivalry for that. He saw at once that his only course was to spare his host and hostess, and – and all of us a scene, by slipping away quietly and unostentatiously, as he had come.
Lady Rhoda (yawning). If he saw all that, why didn't he do it?
Lady Maisie (indignantly). Why? How provoking you can be, Rhoda! Why? Because that stupid Tredwell wouldn't let him! Because Archie delayed him by some idiotic practical joke! Because Mr. Spurrell went and blurted it all out!.. Oh, don't try to run down a really fine act like that; because you can't – you simply can't!
Lady Rhoda (after a low whistle). No idea it had gone so far as that – already! Now I begin to see why Gerry Thicknesse has been lookin' as if he'd sat on his best hat, and why he told your aunt he might have to be off to-morrow; which is all stuff, because I happen to know his leave ain't up for two or three days yet. But he sees this Troubadour has put his poor old nose out of joint for him.
Lady Maisie (flushing). Now, Rhoda, I won't have you talking as if – as if – You ought to know, if Gerald Thicknesse doesn't, that it's nothing at all of that sort! It's just – Oh, I can't tell you how some of his poems moved me, what new ideas, wider views they seemed to teach; and then how dreadfully it hurt to think it was only Mr. Spurrell after all!.. But now– oh, the relief of finding they're not spoilt; that I can still admire, still look up to the man who wrote them! Not to have to feel that he is quite commonplace – not even a gentleman – in the ordinary sense!
Lady Rhoda (rising). Ah well, I prefer a hero who looks as if he had his hair cut, occasionally – but then, I'm not romantic. He may be the paragon you say; but if I was you, my dear, I wouldn't expect too much of that young man – allow a margin for shrinkage, don't you know. And now I think I'll turn into my little crib, for I'm dead tired. Good night; don't sit up late readin' poetry; it's my opinion you've read quite enough as it is!
[She goes.
Lady Maisie (alone, as she gazes dreamily into the fire). She doesn't in the least understand! She actually suspects me of – As if I could possibly – or as if mamma would ever – even if he– Oh, how silly I am!.. I don't care! I am glad I haven't had to give up my ideal. I should like to know him better. What harm is there in that? And if Gerald chooses to go to-morrow, he must – that's all. He isn't nearly so nice as he used to be; and he has even less imagination than ever! I don't think I could care for anybody so absolutely matter-of-fact. And yet, only an hour ago I almost – But that was before!