“I shan’t fail,” said Ashe fervently. “If I have to pull the museum down I won’t fail. Thank heaven, there’s no chance now of your doing anything foolish!”
“Don’t be too sure. Well, good luck, Mr. Marson!”
“Thank you, partner.”
They shook hands.
As they parted at the door, Joan made one further remark: “There’s just one thing, Mr. Marson.”
“Yes?”
“If I could have accepted the mouse from anyone I should certainly have accepted it from you.”
VII
It is worthy of record, in the light of after events, that at the beginning of their visit it was the general opinion of the guests gathered together at Blandings Castle that the place was dull. The house party had that air of torpor which one sees in the saloon passengers of an Atlantic liner—that appearance of resignation to an enforced idleness and a monotony to be broken only by meals. Lord Emsworth’s guests gave the impression, collectively, of being just about to yawn and look at their watches.
This was partly the fault of the time of year, for most house parties are dull if they happen to fall between the hunting and the shooting seasons, but must be attributed chiefly to Lord Emsworth’s extremely sketchy notions of the duties of a host.
A host has no right to interne a regiment of his relations in his house unless he also invites lively and agreeable outsiders to meet them. If he does commit this solecism the least he can do is to work himself to the bone in the effort to invent amusements and diversions for his victims. Lord Emsworth had failed badly in both these matters. With the exception of Mr. Peters, his daughter Aline and George Emerson, there was nobody in the house who did not belong to the clan; and, as for his exerting himself to entertain, the company was lucky if it caught a glimpse of its host at meals.
Lord Emsworth belonged to the people-who-like-to-be-left-alone-to-amuse-themselves-when-they-come-to-a-place school of hosts. He pottered about the garden in an old coat—now uprooting a weed, now wrangling with the autocrat from Scotland, who was theoretically in his service as head gardener—dreamily satisfied, when he thought of them at all, that his guests were as perfectly happy as he was.
Apart from his son Freddie, whom he had long since dismissed as a youth of abnormal tastes, from whom nothing reasonable was to be expected, he could not imagine anyone not being content merely to be at Blandings when the buds were bursting on the trees.
A resolute hostess might have saved the situation; but Lady Ann Warblington’s abilities in that direction stopped short at leaving everything to Mrs. Twemlow and writing letters in her bedroom. When Lady Ann Warblington was not writing letters in her bedroom—which was seldom, for she had an apparently inexhaustible correspondence—she was nursing sick headaches in it. She was one of those hostesses whom a guest never sees except when he goes into the library and espies the tail of her skirt vanishing through the other door.
As for the ordinary recreations of the country house, the guests could frequent the billiard room, where they were sure to find Lord Stockheath playing a hundred up with his cousin, Algernon Wooster—a spectacle of the liveliest interest—or they could, if fond of golf, console themselves for the absence of links in the neighborhood with the exhilarating pastime of clock golf; or they could stroll about the terraces with such of their relations as they happened to be on speaking terms with at the moment, and abuse their host and the rest of their relations.
This was the favorite amusement; and after breakfast, on a morning ten days after Joan and Ashe had formed their compact, the terraces were full of perambulating couples. Here, Colonel Horace Mant, walking with the Bishop of Godalming, was soothing that dignitary by clothing in soldierly words thoughts that the latter had not been able to crush down, but which his holy office scarcely permitted him to utter.
There, Lady Mildred Mant, linked to Mrs. Jack Hale, of the collateral branch of the family, was saying things about her father in his capacity of host and entertainer, that were making her companion feel like another woman. Farther on, stopping occasionally to gesticulate, could be seen other Emsworth relations and connections. It was a typical scene of quiet, peaceful English family life.
Leaning on the broad stone balustrade of the upper terrace, Aline Peters and George Emerson surveyed the malcontents. Aline gave a little sigh, almost inaudible; but George’s hearing was good.
“I was wondering when you are going to admit it,” he said, shifting his position so that he faced her.
“Admit what?”
“That you can’t stand the prospect; that the idea of being stuck for life with this crowd, like a fly on fly paper, is too much for you; that you are ready to break off your engagement to Freddie and come away and marry me and live happily ever after.”
“George!”
“Well, wasn’t that what it meant? Be honest!”
“What what meant?”
“That sigh.”
“I didn’t sigh. I was just breathing.”
“Then you can breathe in this atmosphere! You surprise me!” He raked the terraces with hostile eyes. “Look at them! Look at them—crawling round like doped beetles. My dear girl, it’s no use your pretending that this sort of thing wouldn’t kill you. You’re pining away already. You’re thinner and paler since you came here. Gee! How we shall look back at this and thank our stars that we’re out of it when we’re back in old New York, with the elevated rattling and the street cars squealing over the points, and something doing every step you take. I shall call you on the phone from the office and have you meet me down town somewhere, and we’ll have a bite to eat and go to some show, and a bit of supper afterward and a dance or two; and then go home to our cozy—”
“George, you mustn’t—really!”
“Why mustn’t I?”
“It’s wrong. You can’t talk like that when we are both enjoying
