False Colours

body in a stately manner which frequently exercised an unnerving effect upon strangers already awed by his size and magnificence. He did so now, but as the Fancots were well accustomed to his ways neither Kit nor his mama was dismayed. Lady Denville, indeed, stared very hard at him, and exclaimed: “Bonamy! It’s you who are making that creaking noise! Exactly like the Regent!”

He looked so crestfallen that Kit interposed to ask him how he had fared at Ascot. But although he was chagrined he was not in the least embarrassed by his hostess’s forthright words. He said: “Oh, tol-lol!” in answer to Kit, but told Lady Denville that in point of fact his new corset was a replica of the one worn by the Regent, only rather larger. “For the truth is, Amabel, that I am growing to be a little too stout,” he confided earnestly.

Her eyes danced. “How can you say so? I’ll tell you what you must do: you must subsist wholly on biscuits and soda-water, as they say Lord Byron was used to do!”

He blenched perceptibly, but responded with great gallantry: “Ah, my pretty, if I could hope to win you at last I would even do that!”

“If this is a proposal of marriage, I think I ought to go away,” said Kit.

“She won’t have me,” said Sir Bonamy mournfully. He shifted his position ponderously, so that he could look at Kit, who had sat down out of the direct line of his vision. “But I’ll tell you this, Evelyn! you’ll be a lucky fellow if you get yourself leg-shackled to Stavely’s girl! They tell me she’s a very amiable, pretty young woman. She can’t hold a candle to your mother, of course, but I never saw the woman that could, which is why I’ve stayed a bachelor all my life. I could never fancy any other female. Never shall! That’s why you see me now, a lonely man, with no one to care for, and no one to care a straw for me!”

As he presented the appearance of a comfortable hedonist, Kit was bereft of words. Lady Denville, however, was not so tongue-tied. With what her undutiful son subsequently informed her was an entire absence of propriety, she exclaimed: “Well, of all the plumpers—! As though I didn’t know about the—the birds of Paradise you’ve taken under your protection any time these five-and-twenty years!

“And several of them, as I recall, were dashers of the first water—far more beautiful than I ever was!”

“No one was ever more beautiful than you, my lovely,” said Sir Bonamy simply. He heaved a deep sigh, which made the Cumberland corset creak alarmingly; but almost immediately grew more cheerful, as he disclosed to Kit that his object in coming to Hill Street was to beg him to bring his mama to a little dinner-party which he was planning to hold at the Clarendon Hotel, before he retired to Brighton for the summer months. “They have a way of cooking semelles of carp which is better than anything my Alphonse can do,” he said impressively. “You cut your carp into large collops, you know, and in a stew-pan you put butter, chopped shallots, thyme, parsley, mushrooms, and pepper and salt, of course—anyone knows that! But at the Clarendon something else is added, and devilish good it is, though I haven’t yet discovered what it may be. It is not sorrel, for I desired Alphonse to try that, and it was not the same thing at all, I wonder if it might be just a touch of chervil, and perhaps one or two tarragon-leaves?” He slewed round to smile fondly upon Lady Denville. “You will know, I dare say, my pretty! I thought I would have it removed with a fillet of veal. We must have quails: that goes without saying—and ducklings; and nothing beside except a few larded sweetbreads, and a raised pie. And for the second course just a green goose, with cauliflowers and French beans and peas, for I know you don’t care for large dinners. So I shall add only a dressed lobster, and some asparagus, and a few jellies and creams, and a basket of pastries for you to nibble at. That,” he said, beaming upon his prospective guests, ’is my notion of a neat little dinner.”

“It sounds delightful, sir,” agreed Kit. “The only thing is-’

“Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say, my boy!” Sir Bonamy interrupted. “It wouldn’t do for a large party! But I mean only to invite three other persons, so that we shall sit down no more than six to table. And there will be side-dishes: a haunch of venison, and a braised ham, possibly. Or a dish of lamb cutlets: I must consider what would be most suitable.” A note of discontent entered his voice. “I do not consider this the season for dinners of real excellence,” he said gravely. “To be sure, few things are so good as freshly cut asparagus, to say nothing of a basket of strawberries, which I promise you, my pretty, you shall have! But only think how superior it would be if we could have some plump partridges, and a couple of braised pheasants!”

“Yes, indeed, but that wasn’t what I was about to say, sir! Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to escort Mama to your party, but it so chances that I am obliged to return to Ravenhurst almost immediately.”

“Why, whatever will you find to do there?” asked Sir Bonamy, opening his small round eyes to their widest extent.

“A great deal, I promise you,” responded Kit easily. “If Miss Stavely does me the honour to marry me, my uncle, as I dare say Mama has told you, means to wind up the Trust. There are arrangements to be made—a quantity of things to be done before I could venture to bring my bride to Ravenhurst!”

“But don’t you mean to be in Brighton this summer?” demanded Sir Bonamy, greatly astonished. “I thought you had acquired the same house on the Steyne which you rented last year!”

“Yes, so I have—and it is naturally at my mother’s disposal. I expect I shall be joining her there presently. I don’t know what her plans may be, but I can’t think that she needs my escort to your party, sir! Her poet will be delighted to take my place!”

“If you mean that silly young chough I sent to the rightabout not ten minutes before you came in, Evelyn, I won’t have him at my party!” said Sir Bonamy, roused to unwonted violence. “A fellow that knows no better than to come to visit a lady, dressed all by guess, and with a handkerchief knotted round his throat—! Ay, and what do you think he was doing when I walked in? Reading poetry to her! What a booberkin! I can tell you this, my boy: in my day we’d more rumgumption than to bore a pretty woman into a lethargy!”

“I was not in a lethargy!” stated her ladyship. “No female of my age could be bored by poems written in her honour! Particularly when the poet has been so obliging as to liken her to a daffodil!” She observed, with sparkling delight, the revulsion in both gentlemen’s faces, and added soulfully: “Tossed like a nymph in the breeze!” She went into one of her trills of laughter, as the gentlemen exchanged speaking glances. “Confess, Bonamy! you never said such a pretty thing to me!”

“Puppy!” said Sir Bonamy, his eyes kindling. “A daffodil! Good God! Well, I’ve never written a line of poetry in my life: it is not my way! But if I did write about you I shouldn’t call you a paltry daffodil! I should liken you to a rose—one of those yellow ones, with a deep golden heart, and a sweet scent!” said Sir Bonamy, warming to the theme.

“Nonsense!” she said briskly. “You would be very much more likely to call me a plump partridge, or a Spanish fritter! As for your party, I should like it of all things, and it is most vexatious of Evelyn to go into the country again, for naturally I must accompany him. It is so dreary at Ravenhurst, if one is quite alone: not that I ever have been there alone, but I have often thought how melancholy it would be if I were obliged to stay there by myself. So you will drive over from Brighton to dine with us, if you please! I expect we shall be able to set ducklings before you, though not, I fancy, quails. But certainly lobsters and asparagus!”

This ready acquiescence in his resolve to seek refuge at Ravenhurst surprised Kit. It was not until Sir Bonamy had departed that he learned the reason for it. “Dearest, did you know, then?” demanded his mother, when he returned from helping to hoist her admirer into his carriage.

“Did I know what, Mama?”

“Why, that your uncle Henry is coming to London, on a matter of business! Bonamy told me that he had heard someone say that he was coming, and he said that he would invite him to his party! To be sure, Bonamy couldn’t recall who had told him of it, but I wholly believe it, because it is just the provoking sort of thing Henry would do! When anyone would have supposed that he would be fixed in Nottinghamshire—or do I mean Northamptonshire? Oh, well, it’s of no consequence, and you will know! Wherever it was that he purchased a property when he retired! My darling, I know you have a kindness for him, but you must own that nothing could be more unfortunate than this ridiculous start! I don’t feel that he can be depended on not to recognize you, do you?”

“On the contrary!” said Kit emphatically. “He would know me within five minutes of clapping eyes on me! When is he coming to London?”