about breakfast.
“Oh,
would
you? I say, Aunt Mabel, you are absolutely the cat’s pajamas. If I were younger, I’d marry you instead.”
“Oh, Mr. Firkin,” said Sally roguishly. “You
naughty
man.”
And absolutely delighted with each other, the pair finished their breakfasts.
Sally felt quite powerful and elated. Being Aunt Mabel certainly had its advantages.
But it was not until late in the day that Sally had her much-longed-for talk with the marquess. First, directly after breakfast, she had been accosted by the housekeeper, a formidable lady, all bosom and no hips, who wanted to seek Aunt Mabel’s advice on the insobriety of the butler and the peccadilloes of the footmen.
Luncheon was a dreary affair for Sally, since the marquess was seated next to Miss Wyndham and seemed to be flirting outrageously. Then, after luncheon, Her Grace wished a report on Aunt Mabel’s talk with her son. Then, because of her great age, Sally was almost forced to lie down in the afternoon while “the young people”—everyone under sixty—went out for a drive.
As the duchess was leaving Aunt Mabel in her sitting room, she turned at the door and said, “I have a simply marvelous idea. Paul obviously wants just to get married. Therefore it is up to us to find him someone suitable! I shall give a ball and invite all the prettiest and raciest girls.”
Sally longed to cry out, “Oh, don’t do that!” but Aunt Mabel said instead, “A very good idea.”
The duchess tilted her head to one side and surveyed Aunt Mabel. “You know, I think it was such a good idea getting you here. You must come for the ball. Simply must attend. What fun we will have watching to see which one Paul chooses!”
“Yes,” said Sally bleakly. “On the other hand, I must really return to London. You see, I have many letters to—”
“Of course you have!” said the duchess blithely, “and I took the liberty of telephoning that Mr. Barton and telling him to forward all your mail here. He wanted to send your secretary, but I said there was no need for that. You can use mine. Have you met him? He’s cataloging the library just now. Mr. Worthing. So
that’s
all right. You will be here for the ball. Now, please lie down, dear, and rest your old bones, and we shall see you at dinner.”
The duchess went off merrily, and Sally slumped miserably in her chair. She did not want to sleep. She wanted simply to go to that ball as anyone other than Aunt Mabel.
It was with something of a feeling of relief that Sally welcomed the arrival of two sacks of mail that had arrived by train that morning and had been collected by the duke’s servants.
She debated whether to go down to the library and engage the services of the duke’s secretary, but then decided to work on the letters herself. All at once she wanted to keep thoughts of the marquess out of her mind.
I must be terribly kind to old people
, thought Sally as she settled down to her work.
How awful to be excluded from everything
.
She worked away steadily until a maid arrived at six o’clock with the news that the marquess wished to have a word with her.
With a rapidly beating heart, Sally adjusted her wig, patted her rubber wrinkles, and followed the maid to the long gallery on the first floor, where the marquess was sitting reading a copy of
Home Chats
, surrounded by the portraits of his ancestors.
He looked up at Sally and smiled in such a way that she felt quite breathless.
“Well, my wise Aunt Mabel,” he said, rising and pulling a chair forward for her. “Have you come to a decision? Am I to offer my heart and my hand to Miss Wyndham?”
“I don’t think you should,” said Sally, carefully aging her voice. “Apart from the fact that you are not in love with Miss Wyndham, someone else is.”
“Who?”
“Peter Firkin.”
“Pull the other one,” he said rudely. “I mean to say,
Peter
. I’m very fond of the old boy, and I’ve known him since we were at school together.
“Oh,
would
you? I say, Aunt Mabel, you are absolutely the cat’s pajamas. If I were younger, I’d marry you instead.”
“Oh, Mr. Firkin,” said Sally roguishly. “You
naughty
man.”
And absolutely delighted with each other, the pair finished their breakfasts.
Sally felt quite powerful and elated. Being Aunt Mabel certainly had its advantages.
But it was not until late in the day that Sally had her much-longed-for talk with the marquess. First, directly after breakfast, she had been accosted by the housekeeper, a formidable lady, all bosom and no hips, who wanted to seek Aunt Mabel’s advice on the insobriety of the butler and the peccadilloes of the footmen.
Luncheon was a dreary affair for Sally, since the marquess was seated next to Miss Wyndham and seemed to be flirting outrageously. Then, after luncheon, Her Grace wished a report on Aunt Mabel’s talk with her son. Then, because of her great age, Sally was almost forced to lie down in the afternoon while “the young people”—everyone under sixty—went out for a drive.
As the duchess was leaving Aunt Mabel in her sitting room, she turned at the door and said, “I have a simply marvelous idea. Paul obviously wants just to get married. Therefore it is up to us to find him someone suitable! I shall give a ball and invite all the prettiest and raciest girls.”
Sally longed to cry out, “Oh, don’t do that!” but Aunt Mabel said instead, “A very good idea.”
The duchess tilted her head to one side and surveyed Aunt Mabel. “You know, I think it was such a good idea getting you here. You must come for the ball. Simply must attend. What fun we will have watching to see which one Paul chooses!”
“Yes,” said Sally bleakly. “On the other hand, I must really return to London. You see, I have many letters to—”
“Of course you have!” said the duchess blithely, “and I took the liberty of telephoning that Mr. Barton and telling him to forward all your mail here. He wanted to send your secretary, but I said there was no need for that. You can use mine. Have you met him? He’s cataloging the library just now. Mr. Worthing. So
that’s
all right. You will be here for the ball. Now, please lie down, dear, and rest your old bones, and we shall see you at dinner.”
The duchess went off merrily, and Sally slumped miserably in her chair. She did not want to sleep. She wanted simply to go to that ball as anyone other than Aunt Mabel.
It was with something of a feeling of relief that Sally welcomed the arrival of two sacks of mail that had arrived by train that morning and had been collected by the duke’s servants.
She debated whether to go down to the library and engage the services of the duke’s secretary, but then decided to work on the letters herself. All at once she wanted to keep thoughts of the marquess out of her mind.
I must be terribly kind to old people
, thought Sally as she settled down to her work.
How awful to be excluded from everything
.
She worked away steadily until a maid arrived at six o’clock with the news that the marquess wished to have a word with her.
With a rapidly beating heart, Sally adjusted her wig, patted her rubber wrinkles, and followed the maid to the long gallery on the first floor, where the marquess was sitting reading a copy of
Home Chats
, surrounded by the portraits of his ancestors.
He looked up at Sally and smiled in such a way that she felt quite breathless.
“Well, my wise Aunt Mabel,” he said, rising and pulling a chair forward for her. “Have you come to a decision? Am I to offer my heart and my hand to Miss Wyndham?”
“I don’t think you should,” said Sally, carefully aging her voice. “Apart from the fact that you are not in love with Miss Wyndham, someone else is.”
“Who?”
“Peter Firkin.”
“Pull the other one,” he said rudely. “I mean to say,
Peter
. I’m very fond of the old boy, and I’ve known him since we were at school together.
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