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And George, heaving himself up, walked back to the friendly cosiness of the Marshmoreton Arms. And the remarkable part of it was that everything seemed perfectly natural and sensible to him, nor had he any particular feeling that in falling in love with Lady Maud Marsh and pursuing her to Belpher he had set himself anything in the nature of a hopeless task.
After dinner, eh? Yes, after dinner. That will be capital." "I think you ought to attend to them this morning," said Alice, gently persistent. It really perturbed this girl to feel that she was not doing work enough to merit her generous salary. And on the subject of the history of the Marshmoreton family she was an enthusiast. It had a glamour for her.
She had even contrived to smile. But now, with the final automobile whirring homewards, she had thrown off the mask. The very furniture of Lord Marshmoreton's study seemed to shrink, seared by the flame of her wrath. As for Lord Marshmoreton himself, he looked quite shrivelled. It had not been an easy matter to bring her erring brother to bay.
By the way, have you tobacco, my boy. I came without my pouch." "Just at your elbow. Pretty good stuff. I bought it in the village." "The same I smoke myself." "Quite a coincidence." "Distinctly." "Match?" "Thank you, I have one." George filled his own pipe. The thing was becoming a love-feast. "What was I saying?" said Lord Marshmoreton, blowing a comfortable cloud. "Oh, yes."
Lord Marshmoreton felt more drawn than ever to this sensible young man sensible, at least, on all points but one. It was a pity they could not see eye to eye on what was and what was not suitable in the matter of the love-affairs of the aristocracy. "So you are a composer, Mr. Bevan?" he said affably. "Yes." Lord Marshmoreton gave a little sigh.
The sudden appearance of Alice Faraday always affected him like that. "I have copied out the notes you made last night, Lord Marshmoreton. I typed two copies." Alice Faraday spoke in a quiet, respectful, yet subtly authoritative voice. She was a girl of great character. Previous employers of her services as secretary had found her a jewel.
"Exactly what I told him myself." Lord Marshmoreton giggled. There is no other verb that describes the sound that proceeded from him. "I feel young," he admitted. "I wish some of the juveniles in the shows I've been in," said Billie, "were as young as you. It's getting so nowadays that one's thankful if a juvenile has teeth." She glanced across the room. "Your pals are walking out on you, George.
"Her name's Billie Dore." "Billie?" "Billie." "Billie!" said Lord Marshmoreton softly. "I had better write it down. And her address?" "I don't know her private address. But you could always reach her at the Regal Theatre." "Ah! She is on the stage?" "Yes. She's in my piece, 'Follow the Girl'." "Indeed! Are you a playwright, Mr. Bevan?" "Good Lord, no!" said George, shocked. "I'm a composer."
"Shall I go and ask him if you can't put it off till after dinner?" "Oh, no, thanks very much. I'm sure Lord Marshmoreton wouldn't dream of it." She passed on with a pleasant smile. When he had recovered from the effect of this Reggie proceeded slowly to the upper level to meet his step-mother. "Hullo, mater. Pretty fit and so forth? What did you want to see me about?"
It would have saved them a lot of anxiety. I rather gathered they supposed that the shock was apt to darken your whole life." "That girl," said Lord Marshmoreton vehemently, "was driving me crazy. Always bothering me to come and work on that damned family history. Never gave me a moment's peace . . ." "I liked her," said George. "Nice enough girl," admitted his lordship grudgingly.
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