give you my word, my boy, until I met her I didn’t know a woman existed who could talk so damned sensibly about a bavaroise au rhum.”
He suspended his striking tribute in order to relight his cigar.
“She can use a chafing-dish,” he resumed, his voice vibrating with emotion. “She told me so. She said she could fix chicken so that a man would leave home for it.” He paused, momentarily overcome. “And Welsh rarebits,” he added reverently.
He puffed hard at his cigar.
“Yes,” he said. “Welsh rarebits, too. And because,” he shouted wrathfully, “because, forsooth, she earns an honest living by singing in the chorus of a comic opera, a whole bunch of snivelling idiots will say I have made a fool of myself. Let them!” he bellowed, sitting up and glaring at Rollo. “I say, let them! I’ll show them that Andrew Galloway is not the man to—to—is not the man—” He stopped. “Well, anyway, I’ll show them,” he concluded rather lamely.
Rollo eyed him with fallen jaw. His liqueur had turned to wormwood. He had been fearing this for years. You may drive out Nature with a pitchfork, but she will return. Blood will tell. Once a Pittsburg millionaire, always a Pittsburg millionaire. For eleven years his uncle had fought against his natural propensities, with apparent success; but Nature had won in the end. His words could have no other meaning. Andrew Galloway was going to marry a chorus-girl.
Mr. Galloway rapped on the table, and ordered another kümmel.
“Marguerite Parker!” he roared dreamily, rolling the words round his tongue, like port.
“Marguerite Parker!” exclaimed Rollo, bounding in his chair.
His uncle met his eye sternly.
“That was the name I said. You seem to know it. Perhaps you have something to say against the lady. Eh? Have you? Have you? I warn you to be careful. What do you know of Miss Parker? Speak!”
“Er—no, no. Oh, no! I just know the name, that’s all. I—I rather think I met her once at lunch. Or it may have been somebody else. I know it was someone.”
He plunged at his glass. His uncle’s gaze relaxed its austerity.
“I hope you will meet her many more times at lunch, my boy. I hope you will come to look upon her as a second mother.”
This was where Rollo asked if he might have a little more brandy.
When the restorative came he drank it at a gulp; then looked across at his uncle. The great man still mused.
“Er—when is it to be?” asked Rollo. “The wedding, and all that?”
“Hardly before the Fall, I think. No, not before the Fall. I shall be busy till then. I have taken no steps in the matter yet.”
“No steps? You mean—? Haven’t you—haven’t you proposed?”
“I have had no time. Be reasonable, my boy; be reasonable.”
“Oh!” said Rollo.