Twenty pounds, for instance, would, in the lexicon of Sir Thomas
Blunt, be perfectly reasonable for the current expenses of a man
engaged to Molly McEachern, but preposterous for one to whom she had
declined to remain engaged. It is these subtle shades of meaning
that make the English language so full of pitfalls for the
foreigner.
So engrossed was his lordship in his meditations that a voice spoke
at his elbow ere he became aware of Sir Thomas himself, standing by
his side.
'Well, Spennie, my boy,' said the knight. 'Time to dress for dinner,
I think. Eh? Eh?'
He was plainly in high good humor. The thought of the distinguished
company he was to entertain that night had changed him temporarily,
as with some wave of a fairy wand, into a thing of joviality and
benevolence. One could almost hear the milk of human kindness
gurgling and splashing within him. The irony of fate! Tonight, such
was his mood, a dutiful nephew could have come and felt in his
pockets and helped himself--if circumstances had been different. Oh,
woman, woman, how you bar us from paradise!
His lordship gurgled a wordless reply, thrusting the fateful letter
hastily into his pocket. He would break the news anon. Soon--not
yet--later on--in fact, anon!
'Up in your part, my boy?' continued Sir Thomas. 'You mustn't spoil
the play by forgetting your lines. That wouldn't do!'
His eye was caught by the envelope that Spennie had dropped. A
momentary lapse from the jovial and benevolent was the result. His
fussy little soul abhorred small untidinesses.
'Dear me,' he said, stooping, 'I wish people would not drop paper
about the house. I cannot endure a litter.' He spoke as if somebody
had been playing hare-and-hounds, and scattering the scent on the
stairs. This sort of thing sometimes made him regret the old days.
In Blunt's Stores, Rule Sixty-seven imposed a fine of half-a-crown
on employees convicted of paper-dropping.
'I--' began his lordship.
'Why'--Sir Thomas straightened himself--'it's addressed to you.'
'I was just going to pick it up. It's--er--there was a note in it.'
Sir Thomas gazed at the envelope again. Joviality and benevolence
resumed their thrones.
'And in a feminine handwriting,' he chuckled. He eyed the limp peer
almost roguishly. 'I see, I see,' he said. 'Very charming, quite
delightful! Girls must have their little romance! I suppose you two
young people are exchanging love-letters all day. Delightful, quite
delightful! Don't look as if you were ashamed of it, my boy! I like
it. I think it's charming.'
Undoubtedly, this was the opening. Beyond a question, his lordship
should have said at this point:
'Uncle, I cannot tell a lie. I cannot even allow myself to see you
laboring under a delusion which a word from me can remove. The
contents of this note are not what you suppose. They run as follows-
-'
