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It was, in reality, as the chestnut tree, the birds, the fountain, the flowers, the various small children, even the very earth she played with, understood, a fine offering thanksgiving and triumphal pæan to the God of Heaven, of the earth, and of the waters that were under the earth. Munty himself caught the refrain.
Quite unconscious was Munty of the mud that stained his cheek, perfectly tranquil his daughter as she gazed with glowing happiness about her. A terrible moment for Mrs. Ross, an unforgettable one for her friends; nor were they likely to keep the humour of it entirely to themselves. "Down in a minute. Going up to clean." Smiling, he passed his wife.
He tried ineffectually to cleanse his daughter's face. "We'll come back," she cried, looking down triumphantly upon her handiwork. "We'll have to smuggle you up into the nursery somehow." But he added, "Yes, we'll come again." They hurried home. Very furtively Munty Boss fitted his key into the Yale lock of his fine door. They slipped into the hall. There before them were Mrs.
Munty Ross's house was certainly the smartest in March Square; No. 14, where the Duchess of Crole lived, was shabby in comparison. Very often you may see a line of motor-cars and carriages stretching down the Square, then round the corner into Lent Street, and you may know then as, indeed, all the Square did know and most carefully observed that Mrs.
Munty had, one must suppose, surveyed during certain periods in her life certain real emotions rather as the gaping villagers survey the tiger behind his bars in the travelling circus. The time had then come when she put these emotions away from her as childish things, and determined never to be faced with any of them again. It was not likely, then, that she would introduce Nancy to any of them.
"Hold up," he said, held her for a moment, and then hurried, confused and rather agitated, into his dark sanctum. These were, very nearly, the first words that they had ever, in the course of their lives together, interchanged. Munty had, for a great number of years, pursued a policy with regard to her husband that was not calculated to make him bright and easy in any society.
Munty Boss was giving another of her smart little parties. That dark-green door, that neat overhanging balcony, those rows in the summer months of scarlet geraniums, that roll of carpet that ran, many times a week, from the door over the pavement to the very foot of the waiting vehicle these things were Mrs. Munty Ross's.
Munty had been before her marriage no one quite knew, but now she was flaxen and slim and beautifully clothed, with a voice like an insincere canary; she had "a passion for the Opera," a "passion for motoring," "a passion for the latest religion," and "a passion for the simple life."
Munty Ross a silent, ugly, black little man had had made his money in potted shrimps, or something equally compact and indigestible, and it really was very nice to think that anything in time could blossom out into beauty as striking as Mrs. Munty's lovely dresses, or melody as wonderful as the voice of M. Radiziwill, the famous tenor, whom she often "turned on" at her little evening parties.
It is true that the solemn, respectable grey house, No. 3, can boast that it is the town residence of His Grace the Duke of Crole and his beautiful young Duchess, née Miss Jane Tunster of New York City, but it is also true that No. is in the possession of Mr. Munty Ross of Potted Shrimp fame, and there are Dr.
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