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Lady Belward looked at Gaston anxiously, and asked him why he was curious. "Because she's a lonely-looking little maid," he said, "and I wanted to be kind to her. She didn't seem happy a while ago." Lady Belward was reassured. "Yes, she is a sweet creature, Gaston," she said, and added: "You are a good boy to-night, a very good host indeed.
"H'm!" said Gaston, as he shut the door. "Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!" Gaston Belward was not sentimental: that belongs to the middle-class Englishman's ideal of civilisation. But he had a civilisation akin to the highest; incongruous, therefore, to the general as the sympathy between the United States and Russia.
"H'm!" said Gaston, as he shut the door. "Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!" Gaston Belward was not sentimental: that belongs to the middle-class Englishman's ideal of civilisation. But he had a civilisation akin to the highest; incongruous, therefore, to the general as the sympathy between the United States and Russia.
There's a lot of my life that I haven't told you of, but it doesn't matter, because it's adventure mostly, and it can be told at any time; but these are essential facts, and it is better that you should hear them. And that is all, grandfather and grandmother." After a minute Lady Belward rose, leaned on her crutch, and looked at him wistfully.
She thrilled, and turned to say: "What shall I sing, Mr. Belward?" "The song I taught you the other day 'The Waking of the Fire." "But I've never sung it before anybody." "Do I not count? But, there, that's unfair! Believe me, you sing it very well." She lifted her eyes to his: "You do not pay compliments, and I believe you. Your 'very well' means much. If you say so, I will do my best."
Now he took out a bundle of papers with broken seals, and wound with a faded tape. He turned the rich important parchments over in his hands. He saw his own name on the outside of one: "Sir Gaston Robert Belward." And there was added: "Bart." He laughed. Well, why not complete the reproduction? He was an M. P. why not a Baronet? He knew how it was done. There were a hundred ways.
As he went through the hall other visitors were entering. They passed him, making for the staircase. Ladies with the grand air looked at him curiously, and two girls glanced shyly from the jingling spurs and tasselled boots to his rare face. One of the ladies suddenly gave a little gasping cry, and catching the arm of her companion, said: "Reine, how like Robert Belward! Who who is he?"
Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. Good-bye." Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. "I'll give a sweet savour to your family name," he said with an oath, as he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at the ceiling reflectively. "H'm!" he said at last.
"It's all of a piece," Belward said to himself, glancing from the trim hedges, the small, perfectly-tilled fields and the smooth roads, to Ridley Court itself, where many lights were burning and gates opening and shutting. There was some affair on at the Court, and he smiled to think of his own appearance among the guests.
"The compliment is not remarkable. Now, Ian Belward, don't try to say clever things. And remember that I will have no mischief-making." "At thy command " "Oh, cease acting, and take Sophie to her carriage." Two hours later, Delia Gasgoyne sat in her bedroom wondering at Gaston's abstraction during the drive home. Yet she had a proud elation at his success, and a happy tear came to her eye.
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