bridge?”
“No, no. Worse than that.”
Bradbury started.
“You didn’t sing ‘My Little Grey Home in the West’ at the ship’s concert?” he demanded, eyeing her closely.
“No, no! Ah, how can I tell you? Bradbury, look! You see that man over there?”
Bradbury followed her pointing finger. Standing in an attitude of negligent dignity beside a pile of trunks under the letter V was a tall, stout, ambassadorial man, at the very sight of whom, even at this distance, Bradbury Fisher felt an odd sense of inferiority. His pendulous cheeks, his curving waistcoat, his protruding eyes, and the sequence of rolling chins combined to produce in Bradbury that instinctive feeling of being in the presence of a superior which we experience when meeting scratch golfers, headwaiters of fashionable restaurants, and traffic-policemen. A sudden pang of suspicion pierced him.
“Well?” he said, hoarsely. “What of him?”
“Bradbury, you must not judge me too harshly. We were thrown together and I was tempted—”
“Woman,” thundered Bradbury Fisher, “who is this man?”
“His name is Vosper.”
“And what is there between you and him, and when did it start, and why and how and where?”
Mrs. Fisher dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“It was at the Duke of Bootle’s, Bradbury. I was invited there for the weekend.”
“And this man was there?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! Proceed!”
“The moment I set eyes on him, something seemed to go all over me.”
“Indeed!”
“At first it was his mere appearance. I felt that I had dreamed of such a man all my life, and that for all these wasted years I had been putting up with the second-best.”
“Oh, you did, eh? Really? Is that so? You did, did you?” snorted Bradbury Fisher.
“I couldn’t help it, Bradbury. I know I have always seemed so devoted to Blizzard, and so I was. But, honestly, there is no comparison between them—really there isn’t. You should see the way Vosper stood behind the Duke’s chair. Like a high priest presiding over some mystic religious ceremony. And his voice when he asks you if you will have sherry or hock! Like the music of some wonderful organ. I couldn’t resist him. I approached him delicately, and found that he was willing to come to America. He had been eighteen years with the Duke, and he told me he couldn’t stand the sight of the back of his head any longer. So—”
Bradbury Fisher reeled.
“This man—this Vosper. Who is he?”
“Why, I’m telling you, honey. He was the Duke’s butler, and now he’s ours. Oh, you know how impulsive I am. Honestly, it wasn’t till we were halfway across the Atlantic that I suddenly said to myself, ‘What about Blizzard?’ What am I to do, Bradbury? I simply haven’t the nerve to fire Blizzard. And yet what will happen when he walks into his pantry and finds Vosper there? Oh, think, Bradbury, think!”
Bradbury Fisher was thinking—and for the first time in a week without agony.
“Evangeline,” he said, gravely, “this is awkward.”
“I know.”
“Extremely awkward.”
“I know, I know. But surely you can think of some way out of the muddle!”
“I may. I cannot promise, but I may.” He pondered deeply. “Ha! I have it! It is just possible that I may be able to induce Gladstone Bott to take on Blizzard.”
“Do you really think he would?”
“He may—if I play my cards carefully. At any rate, I will try to persuade him. For the moment you and Vosper had better remain in New York, while I go home and put the negotiations in train. If I am successful, I will let you know.”
“Do try your very hardest.”
“I think I shall be able to manage it. Gladstone and I are old friends, and he would stretch a point to oblige me. But let this be a lesson to you, Evangeline.”
“Oh, I will.”
“By the way,” said Bradbury Fisher, “I am cabling my London agents today to instruct them to buy J. H. Taylor’s shirt-stud for my collection.”
“Quite right, Bradbury, darling. And anything else you want in that way you will get, won’t you?”
“I will,” said Bradbury Fisher.
Keeping in with Vosper
The young man in the heather-mixture plus fours, who for some time had been pacing the terrace above the ninth green like an imprisoned jaguar, flung himself into a chair and uttered a snort of anguish.
“Women,” said the young man, “are the limit.”
The Oldest Member, ever ready to sympathize with youth in affliction, turned a courteous ear.
“What,” he inquired, “has the sex been pulling on you now?”
“My wife is the best little woman in the world.”
“I can readily believe it.”
“But,” continued the young man, “I would like to bean her with a brick, and bean her good. I told her, when she wanted to play a round with me this afternoon, that we must start early, as the days are drawing in. What did she do? Having got into her things, she decided that she didn’t like the look of them and made a complete change. She then powdered her nose for ten minutes. And when finally I got her on to the first tee, an hour late, she went back into the clubhouse to phone to her dressmaker. It will be dark before we’ve played six holes. If I had my way, golf clubs would make a rigid rule that no wife be allowed to play with her husband.”
The Oldest Member nodded gravely.
“Until this is done,” he agreed, “the millennium cannot but be set back indefinitely. Although we are told nothing about it, there can be little doubt that one of Job’s chief trials was that his wife insisted on playing golf with him. And, as we are on this topic, it may interest you to hear a story.”
“I have no time to listen to stories now.”
“If your wife is telephoning to her dressmaker, you have ample time,” replied the Sage. “The story which I am about to relate deals with a man named Bradbury Fisher—”
“You told me that one.”
“I think not.”
“Yes, you did. Bradbury Fisher was a Wall Street millionaire who had an English butler named
