Suzanne Robinson by Just Before Midnight

lesson, she’ll be a thorn in my side the whole time I’m trying to work. Everyone was laughing at me, and I can’t stick it. She’s appalling, and a blight on my existence.”
    “Yeah, all that midnight hair and them tulip lips.”
    “Oh, shut up, Mutton.”

    The next morning Cheyne had recovered his dignity and his good humor. He whistled as he plucked a new tie from a dresser drawer. Mutton was in the sitting room laying out Cheyne’s breakfast. He appeared in the doorway.
    “You got to hurry if you’re going to call on the countess by eleven o’clock.” Cheyne had decided to talk to several people he knew were rabid gossips in order to get a hint of the most likely next victim.
    “There’s time,” Cheyne said. “What’s the matter? You look like you just smelled rotten fish.”
    “Beggin’ your pardon, gov’nor. You going to wear that tie?”
    Cheyne looked at himself in the mirror. He’d admiredthe tie at his tailor’s and purchased it last week. “What’s wrong with polka dots?”
    “Gents wear black ties with their coats.”
    “This tie is black, with white polka dots.”
    “Won’t do.” Mutton went to the dresser and began inspecting Cheyne’s ties. “Here, this one’ll do a treat.” The valet held out a simple black length of silk like half a dozen others in the drawer.
    Cheyne drew himself up. “Mutton, this is the tie I wear.”
    “Awright.”
    “Indeed.”
    “Course, you look like a ponce.” Sighing, Cheyne turned back to the mirror. He studied the bright piece of material around his neck, then yanked it loose. “I suppose I’ll never have any peace if I don’t listen to you.”
    “Prob’ly not,” Mutton said, and he handed Cheyne the black tie.
    “You’d never know I was an officer in the cavalry from the way you behave,” Cheyne said as he tied a new knot.
    “You was a right proper gentleman even then,” Mutton said, “but you wore uniforms what was already designed for you. Never had to choose any ties. Least, not where I could see you.”
    Mutton stood back and examined his master. “Splendid. Nice starch to the collar, good crease on the trousers. I like that new frock coat.”
    “God, you’re so fussy.”
    “I’m not lettin’ you out o’ here without you lookin’sharp. It reflects on me, and I got me reputation to think of.”
    “If I remember correctly, your reputation extends no farther west than Cheapside.”
    Cheyne forestalled more argument by quitting the dressing room and wolfing down his breakfast. On the drive over to Belgrave Square, Cheyne passed the time by designing his revenge on the detestable Miss Matilda Bright. For once he hardly noticed the din in the streets, the clatter of horse-drawn omnibuses, the shouts of street vendors and shopkeepers chasing urchins from their stores. In Belgrave Square he presented his card and waited to be admitted to the Countess of Ixworth’s drawing room.
    The countess, Rose Marie Seton, lived in a grand house built in the new fashion. It was a hodgepodge of Renaissance, medieval, and classic features—turrets, friezes, frescoes, towers, and stained glass. The indiscriminate clash of styles bothered Cheyne, but he felt nothing but pity for the countess.
    The lovely Rose Marie had been, before her marriage, Rosie Leech, a music-hall entertainer. She’d fascinated Guy Seton, and the old buster had married her, to the horror of his family and all Society. Rosie had tried hard to remake herself into a lady. For years she worked on improving her speech, her manners, her education. Yet it was her humor and generosity that had won over the men of rank and position; twenty years after her marriage, neither had won over the women.
    Poor Rosie was still ignored by the leaders of Society.Seldom did she receive an invitation to the most select gatherings such as Lady Lutterworth’s ball, which the Prince and Princess of Wales attended every year. Ever cheerful, Rosie hovered about the edges of select groups at