Part 20

A major-domo had received him and had shown him his rooms. It was clear that, for all his respect, the man had had no idea that he was not conducting a commoner. Culloden was faintly surprised and immensely relieved. The last thing he wanted was the carpet down. Still, it was curious. None of the servants knew. Yet—‘They’re mad to have you.’ Possibly Teddy had paved this admirable way. . . .

Labotte entered the room.

For a moment he stood, looking round. Then he joined the circle about Boschetto.

He at once perceived that the latter was doing his best to please and decided to exploit the endeavour. He therefore directed attention to the poor labourer by laughing and nudging his neighbours and presently mimicking the manner of his host.

“Yess, yess,” cried Boschetto, by way of hearty agreement with the unpleasant youth’s remarks.

“Yess, yess,” echoed Labotte, grinning.

“Yess, yess,” repeated Boschetto unconsciously.

“We ’af no bananas,” said Labotte.

His host flushed painfully, endeavouring to contribute to the laughter in which his loose-lipped patron joined.

“You know,” continued Labotte, taking the stage and indicating his host, “’e says to me one day, ‘Labotte, I ’af feer I am dull. I weesh that I could mague my guess-s laugh.’ An’ I say to ’im, ‘My frien’, you do this more better than you know.’” There was a shriek of laughter. Labotte looked round grinning. “Am I not right—yes?”

Boschetto fell away, chuckling in a queer, strained way, while Labotte engaged the youth in a discussion of the gaieties of Town.

Culloden stepped to Boschetto and began to admire the room.

“Indeed, it’s all so admirable. Not only the château, but the establishment. It’s a privilege to be here. You think of everything. I tell you, Count, I know some people in England who think they can entertain, but if they could see this they’ld go and jump off somewhere. Why are you so kind to us all?”

The Count blinked at him.

“Thank you,” he said tremulously. “Thank you.”

The American girl was speaking.

“To-day,” she said, “he took me for such a lovely drive. Didn’t you, Count?”

Her host drew himself up.

“I’ af enjoy every minute,” he said most earnestly.

The girl appealed to Culloden.

“You see?” she said. “He won’t let anyone thank him. He gives us all the very time of our lives——”

“I am dull,” said Boschetto.

The girl took his arm.

“What awful rot,” she said. She turned to Culloden. “You ought to hear him on Europe. I wonder how many people in this room——”

“Yes, but you was an angel,” said Boschetto gravely.

He glanced at his watch, begged to be excused and made his way to a servant with an anxious air. . . .

“Who,” said Culloden, “are the young chevaliers?”

The girl smiled.

“The one in pink,” she said, “is Monsieur Labotte—a man, as you have seen, of singular taste and charm. The other—well, surely you know who that is.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Aren’t you English?”

“I’m a Scotsman.”

“Worse and worse,” laughed the girl. “My good sir, that is the Duke of Culloden.”

* * * * *

Two days and two hours had gone by, and Nicholas John Kilmuir was enjoying himself very much.

He was royally lodged, admirably served, superbly fed. What was still more to his taste, he went incognito. ‘Incognito’? No one had the remotest idea who he was—except that he was _not_ the Duke of Culloden. To turn to smaller mercies, the weather was brilliant, and his time was his own. Moreoever, his conscience was clear—whenever Boschetto saw him, a pleased light crept into the dull, strained eyes. . . .

But that was not nearly all.

First, there was the spectacle of an impostor, whose arrival on Monday had been taken for that of His Grace, deliberately exploiting the error, accepting the fervent homage of a perfectly poisonous crowd and generally playing such ‘tricks before high Heaven as make the angels weep.’

Secondly, there was Susan Armitage Crail. . . .

“I should like,” said Nicholas John, “to ask you to dance. But a recent bereavement. . . .”

Miss Crail raised her sweet eyebrows.

“I’ve heard some excuses,” she bubbled, “but that’s the very best. It suggests shades of mourning of which the average relict never dreams.”

“He wasn’t a relation,” said Nicholas. “Only a—an intimate connection. And I’m not really mourning. We got on admirably for many years, and then at the last he got above himself. Indeed, he caused me much pain, before—before he . . . passed over.”

Miss Crail frowned.

“Why not ‘died’?” she demanded. “Don’t say you’re——”

“Can appendices die?” said Nicholas.

Susan Crail stared and then fell into silvery laughter.

Kilmuir regarded her gravely.

There was about this girl a natural dignity which no manner of mirth could subvert. The pride of her red mouth was gone: the grave eyes were fairly dancing with merriment; she was unconscious of anything save that she was amused. Yet—hers was the amusement of a great lady. And of such was her charm. More. The girl had depth, quality: she did not require to be amused. There seemed to be things other than dalliance which were dreamt of in her philosophy.

“What should I do without you?” said Nicholas John.

“I expect you’ld play Bridge,” said Susan.

The man shook his head.

“I suppose I should read,” he said. “I’ve nothing in common here with anyone else.”

“You haven’t tried,” said Susan. “That little French girl with the glorious mop of hair. . . .”

“Can you see me?” said Nicholas John. “Do we look as if we should get on? I tell you I can’t—er—chatter. I’ld like to tell you what beautiful arms you’ve got, but I can’t put it into words.”

“Hush,” said Susan. “You mustn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

Steadily grey eyes met brown.

“Because they ring true. I know now that you think I have beautiful arms. I haven’t, but that’s beside the point. I know you think I have. If anyone else said so, I should know they were telling the tale. But you—you mean what you say.”

“I hope so. But that’s no reason. Why shouldn’t I——”

“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. Somehow it’s—it’s dangerous ground. You see, to-day a man can say anything—at least, they do. I hate it, but it’s the fashion . . . _anything_. But there’s always a button on the foil. They don’t mean a word of it. If they did . . . Well, I should take the veil. But they don’t. And that’s the saving clause in an odious document. But you’re different. You mean what you say. Your foil hasn’t got any button. And so—it’s dangerous.”

Kilmuir digested this, frowning.

“In a word,” he said, “I mustn’t make personal remarks?”

“That’s right,” said Susan. With a sudden, childish gesture she touched his arm. “You don’t mind my telling you?” she said.

The sweet simplicity of heart that prompted gesture and word took Kilmuir by the throat. She was a child—this great lady, an exquisite, unspoiled child. Gentle, fair, wise—smothering up her nature because it was not safe for her nature to be abroad. His impulse was to take her hand and kiss it. He wanted to, immensely. But he mustn’t—because she was a child.

In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, their positions had been reversed. A moment ago he had been sitting at her feet. Now her hand was in his, and she was looking up trustfully into his eyes. She was a child.

“No,” he said, “I don’t. In fact, I’m much obliged. Let’s—let’s shake hands, shall we?”

They shook hands gravely.

Locked together, two couples rocketed out of the ballroom, whirled past Miss Crail and Kilmuir and, as the tune ended, crashed in a heap on a divan. They sorted themselves uproariously.

“What about a little courage?” said ‘the Duke,’ drying his neck. “And a mouthful of goose-grease, just to help it down?”

“Are you steel so thirsty?” queried his partner.

“I am when I look at you,” was the ducal reply.

Labotte suspended his handkerchief as a curtain between the two girls, as though to screen the speakers from inconvenient gaze. To do this, he passed his arms upon either side of his partner. The latter, an English girl, sought to duck beneath his sleeve. Instantly he lowered his arm. In a moment the screen was forgotten, and the business became an affray between Gallantry and Virtue.

“See, see,” cried Labotte, grinning. “I ’af catched a leedle mouze in a gage. She will get oud, but she does not know ’ow.” The girl slid to the ground, and her captor slid with her. “You see?” he announced. “It ees no good at oll. You are a preesner for life.”

The pretty scene concluded with a violent struggle from which the lady emerged with a torn dress—a mishap which occasioned shrieks of laughter and a volley of innuendo.

The four departed hilariously in search of champagne. . . .

“D’you like all this?” said Nicholas. “I don’t mean the scene we’ve just witnessed, but the manners of which it’s the fruit.”

“What d’you think?” said Miss Crail.

“I think you hate it. I think you like gaiety, and as this is the only sort going you make the best of it.”

“You’re wrong,” said the girl. “I could live on a desert island and be completely happy.”

“Then why do you stay here?”

“Well, for one thing, I haven’t an island. Secondly, I haven’t any money. I live with an aunt, who keeps me and is at present on a yacht. When I saw the passenger-list, I begged to be excused. So I’ve been left here till she returns. If I’d the nerve, I’ld strike out a line for myself, but I’ve always lived soft and I can’t type a letter, so what can I do?”

Kilmuir regarded the end of his cigarette.

“How long have you done this?” he said.

“Nearly two years now. The idea is to get me married and out of the way. But I don’t go very well. Two or three men have been kind enough to bid, but one was married already and the others. . . .” She shuddered. “My aunt says it’s my fault,” she added, “and so it is! I don’t push my wares. . . . I’m not so bad as I was. At one time I was quite hopeless. But I’m better now. At least I give people a chance—to be nice or nasty according to how they feel. I’m afraid even now I’m not very good at horse-play, but I shall probably learn.”

“Don’t,” cried Nicholas. “Don’t.”

The girl looked at him.

“All right,” she said. “I won’t. I promise I won’t again. I don’t know why I did. Yes, I do,” she added abruptly. “I know why I did.”

“Why?” said Kilmuir.

Susan Crail started.

Then, suddenly, she fell into long strained laughter.

“From your curious tone,” she said, “I perceive that I have been maudlin. You know. Not offensively blind, but sorry for myself. It’s just that extra half-glass, you know. You think ‘I won’t drink it,’ and then you get talking and——”

“Rot,” said Nicholas John.

“Oh, but how rude,” said Susan. “Never mind. You’ll believe me one day. Didn’t I talk about a desert island? Yes, I thought so. I always do. But I’ll bet you never said what the last man said. You’re much too solemn.”

“What did he say?”

“He said it wouldn’t be a desert island long, especially if I went in for goatskin shorts.”

“My very words,” said Kilmuir steadily.

There was a long silence.

Susan was beaten and she knew it.

Hastily she shuffled her cards. These were frightening.

Without thinking, she had told him her story, because she valued his esteem. She valued his esteem, because she loved him. She had told him her plight and, without thinking, she had told him its remedy—_marriage_. She had actually rammed it home—without thinking. Suddenly she had realized. . . .

Horrified at what she had done, she had striven frenziedly to undo it . . . somehow—_anyhow_ . . . no matter at what cost. And he had watched her efforts and feinted and knocked them out.

There was nothing for it: she must begin again.

“I shall pinch you in a minute,” she said. “I tell you, the reaction has set in. The muzzy feeling is passing and I’m beginning to feel ready for anything. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Labotte arrived—a very _deus ex machina_.

He came straight to the two, stood before Susan, spread out anticipative hands and began to oscillate to the one-step which had just commenced. An impudence of raised eyebrows and the shadow of a superior grin argued a confident familiarity which could afford to dispense with a formal invitation to dance.

With a heart of lead, Miss Crail acceded brightly to the unspoken request.

As she launched herself, she flung out the words of the melody in the approved darkie fashion.

_And you never know whether she will,_ _And you never know whether you may,_ _But hold her tight,_ _With all your might,_ _By the small of her back,_ _On a moonlight night,_ _And you won’t be left,_ _’Cause you must be right—_ _THOWAT-T-T’S the way!_

They flashed the short length of the salon, whirled through the open doors and disappeared. . . .

There is an old saying that you cannot have it both ways. If you decide to discourage heaven, then you must be prepared to encourage hell. Whether or no Susan had offended Kilmuir, she had exalted Labotte—a supererogatory and rather dangerous elevation.

He began to improve the occasion almost at once.

“I do not know why I ’af not resgue you more soon. I think I am a gread fool. There is the nices’ leedle ’orse in oll the place sidding with a gread dull fellow an’ I ’af lose my dime in tryin’ to school so many mules. _Tant pis!_ I tell you, we are goin’ to ’af a good dime now. We are goin’ to go well this evenin’—my naize leedle ’orse an’ I.”

His buoyant tenderness was hideous, but Kilmuir was standing in the doorway, and they were dancing towards him.

Susan threw back her head and laughed wildly.

“Your horse?”

Labotte tightened his hold.

“From the firs’ dime I ’af see you, you ’af been my naize leedle ’orse. Bud olways before, you ’af been shy from me. ‘Ah,’ I ’af say, ‘bud thad is a good fault.’ You know, a man like much bedder when a girl is not oll over ’im at once. An’ so I say, ‘Gently, my frien’, tread gently your naize leedle ’orse: an’ one day she shall whinney when she shall ’ear your face——”

“And eat out of your hand?”

It is doubtful whether the sage heard what she said.

Intoxicated with the triumph of his compelling personality, dazzled by the richness of the pasture his brilliancy had won, considerably affected by the elegance with which his imagery had betrayed at once the sportsman, master and swain, Labotte was out of earshot.

He whirled her past Nicholas in an eloquent dithyramb of motion to which she deliberately subscribed.

“My naize leedle ’orse,” he crooned, “oll while I ’af make spord with the mules I ’af see olways my leedle ’orse in the dail of my eye. An’ ad night I ’af dream about ’er, an’ now. . . ’Af I not say that we shall go well this evening? Eh? An’ do we not? Eh? Was I nod righd then, sweet-bit?”

Craning his neck, he leered into her eyes.

As they swung round, Susan was able to see that the doorway was empty. Kilmuir had gone.

“Now then I will teach you ’ow. You mus’ turn your ’ead sweet-bit, and our leaps shall brush themselves. It will, of gourse, be an agsiden’. I shall not ’af know that you were to move. An’ no one shall know neither . . . But we shall know an’ be ’appy—my leedle——”

“Let’s stop,” said Susan, suiting the action to the word.

Labotte wagged his head.

“I know a leedle salon,” he chanted rhythmically, “’alf-way on the stairs.”

As the girl turned, he laid hands upon her. It was his way. He always smeared his prey. The suggestion of an embrace appealed to him. For one thing, it looked so well. It argued a certain proprietorship—a seignory, such as other men did not enjoy; it suggested the existence of a familiarity which, short of a scene, his victim could seldom rebut: it enhanced his reputation as an irresistible dog. For another, he found it agreeable.

He slid an arm about her shoulders and squeezed her hand, as though by way of shepherding her in the required direction.

“D’you mind not touching me?” said Susan.

Labotte started, and the greasy hands fell away.

Then he rapped his knuckles.

“Ah, then,” he simpered, “you mus’ be more gareful, block-face. You mus’ nod go to frighden your leedle ’orse.”

Susan passed out of a door and sat down in the hall. This was empty, but it was not remote.

Labotte stared.

“Bud,” he blurted, “we ’af arrange to go——”

“I sit here,” said Susan.

Labotte sat down by her side and took out a cigarette. His grin had faded into a supercilious and rather unpleasant regard which sat uneasily upon his insignificant face.

“And,” continued Miss Crail, “I’ld be glad if you wouldn’t refer to me as ‘your little horse.’ It suggests an intimacy which does not exist between us; it’s vulgar and it’s bad form. I don’t suppose that any of those reasons will appeal to you, but you can take my word for it they’re pretty sound.”

Labotte regarded her open-mouthed.

After a moment the blood began to pour into his face. Very soon this was completely suffused and glistening. The scarlet of his ears suggested that they were on fire. As for his eyes, these had become small slits of grey-green flame.

He shut his mouth with a snap.

“What?” he breathed through his teeth. “I—_I_ am vulgar?”

“Intensely vulgar,” said Susan, producing a cigarette. “Get me a match.”

For a second Labotte hesitated.

Then he rose, crossed to a table and returned with a box of matches.

“Thank you,” said Miss Crail. “Now you can go.”

Labotte drew himself up.

“I ’af nod the use to be commanded,” he said. “I am a gennelman, an’——”

“Don’t be silly,” said Susan. “Because it suited me to dance with you, that doesn’t make you a gentleman. And now, if you take my advice, you’ll run away and play—while there is time. Otherwise, I may be tempted to put you where you belong.”

The macaroni appeared to have lost the power of speech.

His world was rocking before him.

A woman—a fury, of course—had had the hideous presumption to turn him down. His advances had been rejected: his condescension had been actually flung in his face: he had been offered gross, gratuitous insult. The dove he had deigned to nourish had turned serpent. The female he had demeaned himself to favour had turned and rent him—_him_, Labotte, knight and sportsman. . . .

The indecency of the affair made his brain reel.

Dazedly he put a hand to his head.

“No one ’as never speak to me so—nevare,” he announced dramatically. “Eef you was a man——”

“Be thankful,” said Miss Crail, “that I am not. Why, you wouldn’t ride for weeks,” she added pleasantly.

Labotte blenched. The reflection, however, that sex cannot be changed at will steadied him almost at once.

He took a pace backward and bowed.

“I go,” he said stiffly, “bud nod begauze you ’af say so. No.” Susan began to shake with laughter. “The only reason wot I ’af got ees that I will blease myselve. Oh, yes. Eet ees very fine to laugh,” he added violently. “It ees a gread jork to make slaps when you are very safe that they cannot be render: but eet ees you shall waid, Mees Crail, an’ fin’ whether you shall ’af make these blace too ’ott for you to ’old.”

He turned and sauntered away with such nonchalance as he could muster.

When he was out of sight, Susan went to her room, sank into a chair, buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

Upon the next floor Nicholas was pulling his moustache and covering his third mile upon an Aubusson carpet of great beauty.

Three rooms away Labotte was savaging a pillow.

“_Sapristi!_” he mouthed. “_Mais je vous montrerai, Speet smoke, qu’on ne gagne rien à insulter un sportsman._”

* * * * *

Nicholas very nearly returned to Town.

The man was shocked. At one and the same moment he had made two striking discoveries—severally harmless enough, but jointly corrosive. The first was that Susan Crail was a waster: the second, that he loved her very much. What made things infinitely worse was that, as women go, she was a queen. Spotted silk is so much worse than stained sackcloth. Unearthing more bitterness, he reflected that never again would he be offered the blessed opportunity of wooing without his title to promote his suit.

He avoided Susan but watched her, taking care to conceal his disappointment and wearing it on his sleeve.

Susan could have wept, was careful to appear blithesome and got away with it.

Labotte was as good as his word.

His vanity had been outraged. Very well. All the chivalry of the man rose up in condemnation of the foul deed. His hate had to be served. After surveying his dirty armoury with a malevolent stare, he turned his attention to his opponent’s harness.

Almost immediately he perceived a vulnerable spot.

Miss Crail was a lady, and ladies had an aversion to figuring in scenes. Indeed, to avoid a scene they would endure almost anything. . . .

Labotte licked his lips.

If he approached her privately, he would be told to go away. Very well. Supposing he approached her publicly—short of a scene, she would have to submit to his approach. More. If he addressed her, sat by her side, made loud, innocent conversation—no one would see anything inconsistent with courtesy in that. Everybody would think that he was dancing attendance. But he and she would know that she was being whipped. . . .

Susan’s luck was clean out.

Five times in three days he contrived to sit next to her at meat: twice he had managed to be driven in the same car: seven times he had asked her to dance. She had not done so, but it was not too pleasant—this pestering. Labotte’s attentions would have been odious at any time: now they were nothing less than a direct insult. When upon the third day at dinner he steered the conversation to the points of a ‘naize leedle ’orse,’ mentioned nice clean legs, a soft mouth and well-rounded quarters as essential features and then asked Susan if she did not agree, the latter felt cold with rage.

Most of the women saw there was something amiss and, reluctantly respecting Susan, were faintly amused. The more quick-witted of the men began to smell trouble. The jolly-eyed Frenchman looked very hard at Labotte: the Spaniard had frowned and lost the thread of his discourse: the tall Italian had stared and then asked Susan to dance. But that was all. The way of a man with a maid had to be patently outrageous to warrant intervention. . . .

Deep in a shadowy corner of the _salon vert_ Susan was contemplating her state and wondering, if she fled, how far four hundred and fifty francs would go.

Six feet away two Englishmen were talking.

For a moment or two she listened idly, too much depressed to care at all for their words.

Then her brain leapt.

“Sponge knows who he is.”

“He would”—contemptuously.

“He didn’t go so far as to claim his acquaintance, but he says he’s Kilmuir of Kilsay. He added that he knew his wife intimately—spoke of her as ‘Kitty Kilmuir.’”

“And I bet if she came here she wouldn’t know him. What a sweep the man is!”

The two moved away, and the voices faded.

_His wife. . . . Kitty Kilmuir._

Wondering why she had assumed that Nicholas John Kilmuir was unmarried, halting curiously between relief and dismay, Susan started to her feet. . . .

Then she sank down again and stared at the floor.

Her impulse had been to find Kilmuir at once and tell him the truth. Not all of it, of course, but enough to make him her friend—a present help in her trouble. But Susan Crail was no fool. Life was a stern creditor. If she invoked the sympathy of the man she loved, touched his strong hand, called up the kindness of his steady brown eyes—these things would have to be paid for in blood and tears. As it was, even if Labotte vanished, she would still have to try to forget. . . . Nicholas Kilmuir. There was a scourge waiting. Was it worth her while, for the sake of a little relief, deliberately to load the cords? Wasn’t it better to——