The Corinthian

“You are a dandy!” uttered the Major, with loathing. “A dandy, sir! That’s what you are!”

“Well, I am glad that the haste with which I dressed has not obscured that fact,” replied Sir Richard amiably. “But the correct term is Corinthian.”

“I don’t care a fig what the correct term may be!” roared the Major, striking the table with his fist. “It’s all the same to me: dandy, Corinthian, or pure popinjay!”

“If I lose my temper with you, which, however, I should be loth to do—at all events, at this hour of the morning—you will discover that you are mistaken,” said Sir Richard. “Meanwhile, I presume that you did not bring me out of my bed to exchange compliments with me. What, sir, do you want?”

“Don’t take that high and mighty tone with me, sir!” said the Major. “That whelp of yours has made off with my daughter!”

“Nonsense!” said Sir Richard calmly.

“Nonsense, is it? Then let me tell you that she has gone, sir! Gone, do you hear me? And her maid with her!”

“Accept my condolences,” said Sir Richard.

“Your condolences! I don’t want your damned condolences, sir! I want to know what you mean to do!”

“Nothing at all,” replied Sir Richard.

The Major’s eyes positively bulged, and a vein stood out on his heated brow. “You stand there, and say that you mean to do nothing, when your scoundrel of a cousin has eloped with my daughter?”

“Not at all. I mean to do nothing because my cousin has not eloped with your daughter. You must forgive me if I point out to you that I am getting a little weary of your parental difficulties.”

“How dare you, sir? how dare you?” gasped the Major. “Your cousin meets my daughter by stealth in Bath, lures her out at dead of night here, deceives her with false promises, and now—now, to crown all, makes off with her, and you say—you say that you are weary of my difficulties!”

“Very weary of them. If your daughter has left your roof—and who shall blame her?—I advise you not to waste your time and my patience here, but to enquire at Crome Hall whether Mr Piers Luttrell is at home, or whether he also is missing.”

“Young Luttrell! By God, if it were so I should be glad of it! Ay, glad of it, and glad that any man rather than that vicious, scoundrelly whelp of yours, had eloped with Lydia!”

“Well, that is a fortunate circumstance,” said Sir Richard.

“It is nothing of the kind! You know very well it is not young Luttrell! She herself confessed that she had been in the habit of meeting your cousin, and the young dog said in this very room—in this very room, mark you, with you standing by—”

“My good sir, your daughter and my cousin talked a great deal of nonsense, but I assure you they have not eloped together.”

“Very well, sir, very well! Where then is your cousin at this moment?”

“In his bed, I imagine.”

“Then send for him!” barked the Major.

“As you please,” Sir Richard said, and strolled over to the bell, and pulled it.

He had scarcely released it when the door opened, and the Honourable Cedric walked in, magnificently arrayed in a brocade dressing-gown of vivid and startling design. “What the deuce is the matter?” he asked plaintively. “Never heard such an ungodly racket in my life! Ricky, dear old boy, you ain’t dressed?”

“Yes,” sighed Sir Richard. “It is a great bore, however.”

“But, my dear fellow, it ain’t nine o’clock!” said Cedric in horrified tones. “Damme if I know what has come over you! You can’t start the day at this hour: it ain’t decent!”

“I know, Ceddie, but when in Rome, one—er—is obliged to cultivate the habits of the Romans. Ah, allow me to present Major Daubenay—Mr Brandon!”

“Servant, sir!” snapped the Major, with the stiffest of bows.

“Oh, how d’ye do?” said Cedric vaguely. “Deuced queer hours you keep in the country!”

“I am not here upon a visit of courtesy!” said the Major.

“Now, don’t tell me you’ve been quarrelling, Ricky!” begged Cedric. “It sounded devilish like it to me. Really, dear boy, you might have remembered I was sleeping above you. Never at my best before noon, y”know. Besides, it ain’t like you!”

He lounged, yawning, across the room to an armchair by the fireplace, and dropped into it, stretching his long legs out before him. The Major glared at him, and said pointedly that he had come to see Sir Richard upon a private matter.

This hint passed over Cedric’s head. “What we want is some coffee—strong coffee!” he said.

A maid-servant in a mobbed cap came in just then, and seemed astonished to find the room occupied. “Oh, I beg pardon, sir! I thought the bell rang!”

“It did,” said Sir Richard. “Have the goodness to tap on Mr Brown’s door, and to request him to step downstairs as soon as he shall have dressed. Major Daubenay wishes to speak to him.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” commanded Cedric. “Bring some coffee first, there’s a good girl!”

“Yes, sir,” said the maid, looking flustered.

“Coffee!” exploded Major Daubenay.

Cedric cocked an intelligent eyebrow. “Don’t like the notion? What shall it be? Myself, I think it’s too early for brandy, but if you fancy a can of ale, say the word!”

“I want nothing, sir! Sir Richard, while we waste time in such idle fripperies as these, that young dog is abducting my daughter!”

“Fetch Mr Brown,” Sir Richard told the servant.

“Abduction, by Jupiter!” said Cedric. “What young dog?”

“Major Daubenay,” said Sir Richard, “is labouring under the delusion that my cousin eloped last night with his daughter.”

“Eh?” Cedric blinked. An unholy gleam stole into his eyes as he glanced from Sir Richard to the Major; he said unsteadily: “No, by Jove, you don’t mean it? You ought to keep him in better order, Ricky!”

“Yes!” said the Major. “He ought indeed! But instead of that he has—I will not say abetted the young scoundrel—but adopted an attitude which I can only describe as Callous, sir, and supine!”

Cedric shook his head. “That’s Ricky all over.” His gravity broke down. “Oh lord, what the deuce put it into your head your daughter had gone off with his cousin? I’ll tell you what, it’s the richest jest I’ve heard in months! Ricky, if I don’t roast you for this for years to come!”

“You are going to the Peninsula, Ceddie,” Sir Richard said, with a lurking smile.

“You are amused, sir!” the Major said, bristling.

“Lord, yes, and so would you be if you knew as much about Wyndham’s cousin as I do!”

The maid-servant came back into the room. “Oh, if you please, sir! Mr Brown’s not in his room,” she said, dropping a curtsey.

The effect of this pronouncement was startling. The Major gave a roar like that of a baffled bull; Cedric’s laughter was cut short; and Sir Richard let his eyeglass fall.

“I knew it! Oh, I knew it!” raged the Major. “Now, sir!”

Sir Richard recovered himself swiftly. “Pray do not be absurd, sir!” he said, with more asperity than Cedric ever remembered to have heard in his voice before. “My cousin has in all probability stepped out to enjoy the air. He is an early riser.”

“If you please, sir, the young gentleman has taken his cloak-bag with him.”

The Major seemed to be having considerable difficulty in holding his fury within bounds. Cedric, observing his gobblings with a sapient eye, begged him to be careful. “I knew a man once who got into just such a taking. He burst a blood-vessel. True as I sit here!”

The maid-servant, upon whom the Honourable Cedric’s charm of manner had not fallen unappreciated, smothered a giggle, and twisted one corner of her apron into a screw. “There was a letter for your honour upon the mantelshelf when I did the room out,” she volunteered.