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I let my moustache and imperial grow again; and as hair comes quickly on my face, they were respectable, though not luxuriant, by the time that I landed myself in Paris and called on my friend George Featherly.
What will Lady Featherly say? We wont be asked to any more 'at homes' now, and the ball at 'Rideau' is next week, oh dear boo hoo hoo!" Of course the merciless husband gets mad because his poor little helpless wife sees fit to weep over a fate that must disgrace her in the eyes of the social world.
Heartily did I curse George Featherly for not holding his tongue. "Well," asked Flavia, "have you finished your business?" "Most satisfactorily," said I. "Come, shall we turn round? We are almost trenching on my brother's territory." We were, in fact, at the extreme end of the town, just where the hills begin to mount towards the Castle.
"Why I can hardly say," said Sir Vavasour; "there is Sir Charles Featherly, an old baronet." "The founder a lord mayor in James the First's reign. That is not the sort of old family that I mean," said Mr Hatton. "Well there is Colonel Cockawhoop," said Sir Vavasour. "The Cockawhoops are a very good family I have always heard."
When I returned empty-handed, Rose was so occupied in triumphing over Burlesdon that she let me down quite easily, devoting the greater part of her reproaches to my failure to advertise my friends of my whereabouts. "We've wasted a lot of time trying to find you," she said. "I know you have," said I. "Half our ambassadors have led weary lives on my account. George Featherly told me so.
He ruffled his hair with his hand and smoked furiously. George Featherly, standing with his back to the mantelpiece, smiled unkindly. "If it's the old affair," said he, "you may as well throw it up, Bert. She's leaving Paris tomorrow." "I know that," snapped Bertram. "Not that it would make any difference if she stayed," pursued the relentless George.
MacShaugnassy opened the proceedings by reading his aunt's letter. Wrote the old lady: "I think, if I were you, my dear boy, I should choose a soldier. You know your poor grandfather, who ran away to America with that wicked Mrs. Featherly, the banker's wife, was a soldier, and so was your poor cousin Robert, who lost eight thousand pounds at Monte Carlo.
Flavia was paying little attention. I dared not look at Sapt. "What reason?" "A friend of his in Paris a certain M. Featherly has given us information which makes it possible that he came here, and the officials of the railway recollect his name on some luggage." "What was his name?" "Rassendyll, sire," he answered; and I saw that the name meant nothing to him.
The next day George Featherly went with me to the station, where I took a ticket for Dresden. "Going to see the pictures?" asked George, with a grin. George is an inveterate gossip, and had I told him that I was off to Ruritania, the news would have been in London in three days and in Park Lane in a week.
I called on George Featherly at the Embassy, and we had a bit of dinner together at Durand's, and afterwards dropped in to the Opera; and after that we had a little supper, and after that we called on Bertram Bertrand, a versifier of some repute and Paris correspondent to The Critic. He had a very comfortable suite of rooms, and we found some pleasant fellows smoking and talking.
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