“I am risking something, I know,” continued Joey; “but it’s worth it. I couldn’t have existed much longer. We go slowly, and are very careful. Jack is Lord Mount-Primrose, who has taken up with anti-vaccination and who never goes out into Society. Somerville is Sir Francis Baldwin, the great authority on centipedes. The Wee Laddie is coming next week as Lord Garrick, who married that dancing-girl, Prissy Something, and started a furniture shop in Bond Street. I had some difficulty at first. She wanted to send out paragraphs, but I explained that was only done by vulgar persons—that when the nobility came to you as friends, it was considered bad taste. She is a dear girl, as I have always told you, with only one fault. A woman easier to deceive one could not wish for. I don’t myself see why the truth ever need come out—provided we keep our heads.”
“Seems to me you’ve lost them already,” commented Peter; “you’re overdoing it.”
“The more of us the better,” explained Joey; “we help each other. Besides, I particularly want you in it. There’s a sort of superior Pickwickian atmosphere surrounding you that disarms suspicion.”
“You leave me out of it,” growled Peter.
“See here,” laughed Joey; “you come as the Duke of Warrington, and bring Tommy with you, and I’ll write your City article.”
“For how long?” snapped Peter. Incorruptible City editors are not easily picked up.
“Oh, well, for as long as you like.”
“On that understanding,” agreed Peter, “I’m willing to make a fool of myself in your company.”
“You’ll soon get used to it,” Joey told him; “eight o’clock, then, on Sunday; plain evening dress. If you like to wear a bit of red ribbon in your buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans’, in Covent Garden.”
“And Tommy is the Lady——”
“Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, then she needn’t wear gloves. I know she hates them.” Joey turned to go.
“Am I married?” asked Peter.
Joey paused. “I should avoid all reference to your matrimonial affairs if I were you,” was Joey’s advice. “You didn’t come out of that business too well.”
“Oh! as bad as that, was I? You don’t think Mrs. Loveredge will object to me?”
“I have asked her that. She’s a dear, broad-minded girl. I’ve promised not to leave you alone with Miss Montgomery, and Willis has had instructions not to let you mix your drinks.”
“I’d have liked to have been someone a trifle more respectable,” grumbled Peter.
“We rather wanted a duke,” explained Joey, “and he was the only one that fitted in all round.”
The dinner was a complete success. Tommy, entering into the spirit of the thing, bought a new pair of open-work stockings and assumed a languid drawl. Peter, who was growing forgetful, introduced her as the Lady Alexandra; it did not seem to matter, both beginning with an A. She greeted Lord Mount- Primrose as “Billy,” and asked affectionately after his mother. Joey told his raciest stories. The Duke of Warrington called everybody by their Christian names, and seemed well acquainted with Bohemian society—a more amiable nobleman it would have been impossible to discover. The lady whose real name was not Miss Montgomery sat in speechless admiration. The hostess was the personification of gracious devotion.