“Avez-vous les jeunes filles de Madame Beste-Chetwynde?” Paul asked, acutely conscious of the absurdity of the question.
“Sure, step right along, Mister,” said the concierge; “she wired us you was coming.”
Mrs. Grimes and her two friends were not yet dressed, but they received Paul with enthusiasm in dressing-gowns which might have satisfied the taste for colour of the elder Miss Fagan. They explained the difficulty of the passports, which, Paul thought, was clearly due to some misapprehension by the authorities of their jobs in Rio. They didn’t know any French, and of course they had explained things wrong.
He spent an arduous morning at consulates and police bureaux. Things were more difficult than he had thought, and the officials received him either with marked coldness or with incomprehensible winks and innuendo.
Things had been easier six months ago, they said, but now, with the League of Nations—And they shrugged their shoulders despairingly. Perhaps it might be arranged once more, but Madame Beste-Chetwynde must really understand that there were forms that must be respected. Eventually the young ladies were signed on as stewardesses.
“And if they should not go further with me than Rio,” said the captain, “well, I have a sufficient staff already. You say there are posts waiting for them there? No doubt their employers will be able to arrange things there with the authorities.”
But it cost Paul several thousand francs to complete the arrangements. “What an absurd thing the League of Nations seems to be!” said Paul. “They seem to make it harder to get about instead of easier.” And this, to his surprise, the officials took to be a capital joke.
Paul saw the young ladies to their ship, and all three kissed him goodbye. As he walked back along the quay he met Potts.
“Just arrived by the morning train,” he said. Paul felt strongly inclined to tell him his opinion of the League of Nations, but remembering Potts’ prolixity in argument and the urgency of his own departure, he decided to leave his criticisms for another time. He stopped long enough in Marseilles to cable to Margot, “Everything arranged satisfactorily. Returning this afternoon. All my love” and then left for Paris by air, feeling that at last he had done something to help.
At ten o’clock on his wedding morning Paul returned to the Ritz. It was raining hard, and he felt tired, unshaven and generally woebegone. A number of newspaper reporters were waiting for him outside his suite, but he told them that he could see no one. Inside he found Peter Beste-Chetwynde, incredibly smart in his first morning-coat.
“They’ve let me come up from Llanabba for the day,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m rather pleased with myself in these clothes. I bought you a buttonhole in case you’d forgotten. I say, Paul, you’re looking tired.”
“I am, rather. Turn on the bath for me like an angel.”
When he had had his bath and shaved he felt better. Peter had ordered a bottle of champagne and was a little tipsy. He walked round the room, glass in hand, talking gaily, and every now and then pausing to look at himself in the mirror. “Pretty smart,” he said, “particularly the tie; don’t you think so, Paul? I think I shall go back to the school like this. That would make them see what a superior person I am. I hope you notice that I gave you the grander buttonhole? I can’t tell you what Llanabba is like this term, Paul. Do try and persuade Mamma to take me away. Clutterbuck has left, and Tangent is dead, and the three new masters are quite awful. One is like your friend Potts, only he stutters, and Brolly says he’s got a glass eye. He’s called Mr. Makepeace. Then there’s another one with red hair who keeps beating everyone all the time, and the other’s rather sweet, really, only he has fits. I don’t think the Doctor cares for any of them much. Flossie’s been looking rather discouraged all the time. I wonder if Mamma could get her a job in South America? I’m glad you’re wearing a waistcoat like that. I nearly did, but I thought perhaps I was a bit young. What do you think? We had a reporter down at the school the other day wanting to know particulars about you. Brolly told a splendid story about how you used to go out swimming in the evenings and swim for hours and hours in the dark composing elegiac verses, and then he spoilt it by saying you had webbed feet and a prehensile tail, which made the chap think he was having his leg pulled. I say, am I terribly in the way?”
As Paul dressed his feeling of well-being began to return. He could not help feeling that he too looked rather smart. Presently Alastair Digby-Vaine-Trumpington came in, and drank some champagne.
“This wedding of ours is about the most advertised thing that’s happened for a generation,” he said. “D’you know, the Sunday Mail has given me fifty pounds to put my name to an article describing my sensations as best man. I’m afraid everyone will know it’s not me, though; it’s too jolly well written. I’ve had a marvellous letter from Aunt Greta about it, too. Have you seen the presents? The Argentine Chargé d’Affaires has given you the works of Longfellow bound in padded green leather, and the Master of Scone has sent those pewter plates he used to have in his hall.”
Paul fastened the gardenia in his buttonhole, and they went down to luncheon. There were several people in the restaurant obviously dressed for a wedding, and it gave Paul some satisfaction to notice that he was the centre
