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Prohack, in the entrance hall of the Grand Babylon Hotel. He was alone no sign of Miss Fancy. "Sissie?" said Eve calmly. "I haven't the slightest idea." "But I included her in my invitations and Mr. Morfey too." Mr. Prohack was taken aback, foreseeing the most troublesome complications; and he glanced at Eve as if for guidance and support.
"Well, now I come to think of it, I don't!" Mr. Morfey answered nearly all questions as though they were curious, disconcerting questions that took him by surprise. This mannerism was universally attractive until you got tired of it. Mr. Prohack was now faintly attracted by it, so that he said, in a genuine attempt at good-fellowship: "You know I can't for the life of me remember your name.
Prohack, who could not help thinking: "Perhaps after all you aren't such a bad sort of an idiot." "Yes," said Mr. Prohack. "Do you often get as far as Putney?" For Mr. Oswald Morfey, enveloped as he unquestionably was in the invisible aura of the West End, seemed conspicuously out of place in a dance-studio in a side-street in Putney, having rather the air of an angelic visitant.
I'm not sure if I shall be in for tea, but I will be if you think you'll be lonely." "Did you do much entertaining at lunch, young woman?" Mr. Prohack asked. "Charlie had several people men but I really don't know who they were. And Ozzie Morfey came. And permit me to inform you that Charlie was simply knocked flat by my qualities as a hostess. Do you know what he said to me afterwards?
A few short weeks ago, and you made a mock of women who let themselves get into The Daily Picture. And now you are there yourself! And there was another point, as sharp as any. Ozzie Morfey must have known, Charlie must have known, Sissie must have known, Eve herself must have known, that the de facto owner of the noble mansion was Eliza Fiddle. And none had vouchsafed the truth to him.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but a Mr. Morfey is on the telephone and asks whether it would be convenient for you to see him to-night. He says it's urgent." Mr. Prohack braced himself, but where his stomach had been there was a void. "Had an accident to your eye-glass?" asked Mr. Prohack, shaking hands with Oswald Morfey, when the latter entered, by appointment, Mr.
"What's sauce for the goose has to be sauce for the gander. If you're perfectly well, so am I. You can't have the monopoly of good health in this marriage. What's that pamphlet you've got in your hand, my dove?" "Oh! It's nothing. It's only about the League of all the Arts. Mr. Morfey gave it to me."
But the effort was a failure so complete that Sissie laughed at him. He had expected that in the car his women would relate to him the sayings and doings of Ozzie Morfey in relation to the United League of all the Arts. But they said not a syllable on the matter. He knew they were hiding something formidable from him. He might have put a question, but he was too proud to do so.
When Charlie stated curtly that he, Charlie, was going to no ball, he feigned disappointment, saying that Charlie ought to go for his sister's sake. In the matter of Charlie, Oswald Morfey also feigned disappointment, but for a different reason. Ozzie wanted to have Sissie as much as possible to himself. Mr. Prohack yawned in the car. "You're over-tired, Arthur.
From all which it follows, my dear Morfey, that your mission to me here this evening is a somewhat illogical, futile, and unnecessary mission, and that the missioner must be either singularly old-fashioned and conventional or laughing in his sleeve at me. No!" Mr. Prohack with a nineteenth century wave of the hand deprecated Ozzie's interrupting protest. "No!
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