The newcomers were a tall, strikingly handsome girl, with a rather hard and cynical cast of countenance. She was leading by the hand a small, fat boy of about fourteen years of age, whose likeness to the portrait on the chair proclaimed his identity. He had escaped the collision, but seemed offended by it; for, eyeing the bending peer with cold distaste, he summed up his opinion of him in the one word “Chump!”
Lord Mountry rose.
“I beg your pardon,” he said for perhaps the seventh time. He was thoroughly unstrung. Always excessively shy, he was embarrassed now by quite a variety of causes. The world was full of eyes—Mrs. Ford’s saying “Go!” Ogden’s saying “Fool!” the portrait saying “Idiot!” and, finally, the eyes of this wonderfully handsome girl, large, grey, cool, amused, and contemptuous saying—so it seemed to him in that feverish moment—“Who is this curious pink person who cumbers the ground before me?”
“I—I beg your pardon,” he repeated.
“Ought to look where you’re going,” said Ogden severely.
“Not at all,” said the girl. “Won’t you introduce me, Nesta?”
“Lord Mountry—Miss Drassilis,” said Mrs. Ford.
“I’m afraid we’re driving Lord Mountry away,” said the girl. Her eyes seemed to his lordship larger, greyer, cooler, more amused, and more contemptuous than ever. He floundered in them like an unskilful swimmer in deep waters.
“No, no,” he stammered. “Give you my word. Just going. Goodbye. You won’t forget to let me know about the yacht, Mrs. Ford—what? It’ll be an awfully jolly party. Goodbye, goodbye, Miss Drassilis.”
He looked at Ogden for an instant, as if undecided whether to take the liberty of addressing him too, and then, his heart apparently failing him, turned and bolted. From down the corridor came the clatter of a dropped stick.
Cynthia Drassilis closed the door and smiled.
“A nervous young person!” she said. “What was he saying about a yacht, Nesta?”
Mrs. Ford roused herself from her fascinated contemplation of Ogden.
“Oh, nothing. Some of us are going to the south of France in his yacht next week.”
“What a delightful idea!”
There was a certain pensive note in Cynthia’s voice.
“A splendid idea!” she murmured.
Mrs. Ford swooped. She descended on Ogden in a swirl and rustle of expensive millinery, and clasped him to her.
“My boy!”
It is not given to everybody to glide neatly into a scene of tense emotion. Ogden failed to do so. He wriggled roughly from the embrace.
“Got a cigarette?” he said.
He was an extraordinarily unpleasant little boy. Physically the portrait standing on the chair did him more than justice. Painted by a mother’s loving hand, it flattered him. It was bulgy. He was more bulgy. It was sullen. He scowled. And, art having its limitations, particularly amateur art, the portrait gave no hint of his very repellent manner. He was an intensely sophisticated child. He had the air of one who has seen all life has to offer, and is now permanently bored. His speech and bearing were those of a young man, and a distinctly unlovable young man.
Even Mrs. Ford was momentarily chilled. She laughed shakily.
“How very matter-of-fact you are, darling!” she said.
Cynthia was regarding the heir to the Ford millions with her usual steady, half-contemptuous gaze.
“He has been that all day,” she said. “You have no notion what a help it was to me.”
Mrs. Ford turned to her effusively.
“Oh, Cynthia, dear, I haven’t thanked you.”
“No,” interpolated the girl dryly.
“You’re a wonder, darling. You really are. I’ve been repeating that ever since I got your telegram from Eastnor.” She broke off. “Ogden, come near me, my little son.”
He lurched towards her sullenly.
“Don’t muss a fellow now,” he stipulated, before allowing himself to be enfolded in the outstretched arms.
“Tell me, Cynthia,” resumed Mrs. Ford, “how did you do it? I was telling Lord Mountry that I hoped I might see my Ogden again soon, but I never really hoped. It seemed too impossible that you should succeed.”
“This Lord Mountry of yours,” said Cynthia. “How did you get to know him? Why have I not seen him before?”
“I met him in Paris in the fall. He has been out of London for a long time, looking after his father, who was ill.”
“I see.”
“He has been most kind, making arrangements about getting Ogden’s portrait painted. But, bother Lord Mountry. How did we get sidetracked on to him? Tell me how you got Ogden away.”
Cynthia yawned.
“It was extraordinarily easy, as it turned out, you see.”
“Ogden, darling,” observed Mrs. Ford, “don’t go away. I want you near me.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Then stay by me, angel-face.”
“Oh, slush!” muttered angel-face beneath his breath. “Say, I’m darned hungry,” he added.
It was if an electric shock had been applied to Mrs. Ford. She sprang to her feet.
“My poor child! Of course you must have some lunch. Ring the bell, Cynthia. I’ll have them send up some here.”
“I’ll have mine here,” said Cynthia.
“Oh, you’ve had no lunch either! I was forgetting that.”
“I thought you were.”
“You must both lunch here.”
“Really,” said Cynthia, “I think it would be better if Ogden had his downstairs in the restaurant.”
“Want to talk scandal, eh?”
“Ogden, dearest!” said Mrs. Ford. “Very well, Cynthia. Go, Ogden. You will order yourself something substantial, marvel-child?”
“Bet your life,” said the son and heir tersely.
There was a brief silence as the door closed. Cynthia gazed at her friend with a peculiar expression.
“Well, I did it, dear,” she said.
“Yes. It’s splendid. You’re a wonder, darling.”
“Yes,” said Cynthia.
There was another silence.
“By the way,” said Mrs. Ford, “didn’t you
