Phoebe, who had left Edmund playing with the puppy, said: “Oh yes! I will certainly do so, if he should ask for you!” and withdrew, leaving Ianthe to the more agreeable companionship of her new admirer.

Upon the following day a physician was summoned to Ianthe’s sick-bed. He confirmed Phoebe’s diagnosis, and with very little prompting said that with persons of miladi’s delicate constitution the greatest care must be exercised: miladi should beware of over-exertion.

“So I fancy we may consider ourselves as fixed here for at least a week,” Phoebe said, setting out with Tom and Edmund to buy linen for Edmund. “Tom, did you contrive to leave word at that hotel where we were to be found? For Salford, you know!”

“Leave word!” echoed Tom scornfully. “Of course I didn’t! You don’t suppose they will forget Fotherby there in a hurry, do you? Trying to purchase the place! Well, of all the gudgeons!”

“Gudgeon,” repeated Edmund, committing this pleasing word to memory.

“Oh, lord!” said Tom. “Now, don’t you repeat that, young Edmund! And another thing! You are not to call Sir Nugent a moulder!” He waited until Edmund had run ahead again, and then said severely to Phoebe: “You know, Phoebe, you’ve no business to encourage him to be rude to Fotherby!”

“I don’t encourage him,” she said, looking a little guilty. “Only I can’t help feeling that it would be foolish to stop him, because that might make Sir Nugent wish to keep him. And you can’t deny, Tom, that if he were to take him in dislike it would make it much easier for—it would make it much easier to persuade Lady Ianthe to give him up!”

“Well, of all the unprincipled females!” gasped Tom. “Take care Fotherby ain’t goaded into murdering him, that’s all! He ain’t in the humour to stand the roast much longer, and the way that young demon keeps on asking him if he can take a fly off a horse’s ear, or some such thing, and then saying that his Uncle Vester can, is enough to drive the silly chuckle-head into a madhouse!”

Phoebe giggled, but said: “I must say, one can’t wonder at his being out of humour! With an ailing bride and a son-in-law who detests him I do think he is having a horrid honeymoon, don’t you?”

But neither of these disagreeable circumstances was, in fact, at the root of Sir Nugent’s loss of equanimity, as Phoebe was soon to discover. Finding her alone in the coffee-room that afternoon it was not long before he was confiding to her the true cause of his dissatisfaction. He disliked the Poisson Rouge. Phoebe was rather surprised at first, because Madame Bonnet, besides being a notable cook, treated him with all the deference and anxiety to please that the most exacting guest could have demanded; and everyone else, from the waiter to the boots, scurried to obey his lightest commands. After listening to his discourse for a few minutes she understood the matter better. Sir Nugent had never before so lowered himself as to put up at any but the most fashionable and expensive hostelries. Both his consequence and his love of display had suffered severe wounds. More sensitive souls might shrink from attracting public notice; to Sir Nugent Fotherby, the wealthiest man in England, it was the breath of life. He had hugely enjoyed the sensation caused by Ianthe’s opulent chariot; it afforded him intense pleasure to be ushered by landlords, bent nearly double in obsequiousness, into the best apartments, and to know that his sauntering progress was watched by envious eyes. No such eyes were to be found at the Poisson Rouge. To be sure, had he been able to purchase the Hotel d’Angleterre, and to eject from it all other guests, he would have found himself similarly bereft; but what a gesture it would have been! how swiftly would the news of his eccentricity have spread over the town! with what awe would the citizens have pointed him out whenever he had sallied forth into the street! To have commandeered an unfashionable inn in a quiet road might be eccentric, but conveyed no sense of his fabulous wealth to the inhabitants of Abbeville. It was even doubtful if anyone beyond Madame Bonnet’s immediate circle knew anything about it.

Naturally, he did not phrase his grievance so plainly: it rather crept through his other complaints. Acquainted as Phoebe was with another kind of pride, she listened to him with as much amazement as enjoyment. It would have been idle to have denied enjoyment, which was tempered only by regret that the rich mine of absurdity underlying his foppish appearance had been unknown to her when she had caused his image to flit through the pages of The Lost Heir. She found herself weaving a new story round him, and greeted with relief (since the outcome of her first literary adventure had been so appalling) the entrance into the room of Master Rayne, his new friend prancing at his heels.

Madame had bestowed the name of Toto upon the puppy, but he was known to her guests as Chien, a slight misunderstanding having arisen between Madame and Master Rayne. Edmund, overcoming his dislike of foreigners in his desire to pursue his acquaintanceship with Toto, had nerved himself to seek him in the kitchen, and even to demand his name of Madame. Chien was what Madame had said, and when he had repeated it she had nodded and clapped her hands. So Chien the puppy had to be.

Sir Nugent eyed his stepson with apprehension, but Edmund addressed himself to Phoebe. He wanted the coloured chalks Tom had bought for him, Chien having expressed a desire of having his likeness drawn. Having been supplied with the chalks and some paper he disposed himself on the floor and abandoned himself to art. The amiable Chien sat beside him, thumping his tail on the floor, and gently panting.

Seeing that Edmund was absorbed in his own affairs Sir Nugent resumed his discourse, walking up and down the room while he enumerated his grievances.

He had arrayed himself that morning in the nattiest of town-wear. His costume, besides such novel features as white pantaloons, and the Fotherby Tie, included a pair of Hessian boots, never before worn, and decorated with extra-large gold tassels. Hoby had made them to his design, and not Lord Petersham himself had ever been seen in more striking footwear. As Sir Nugent strode about the coffee-room the tassels swung with his every step, just as he had hoped they would. No one could fail to notice them: not even a puppy of dubious lineage.

Chien was fascinated by them. He watched them with his head on one side for several minutes before succumbing to temptation, but they beckoned too alluringly to be withstood. He rose to investigate them more nearly, and snapped at the one bobbing closest to his nose.

An exclamation of horror broke from Sir Nugent, followed by a stentorian command to Chien to drop it. Chien responded by growling as he tugged at the bauble, and wagging his tail. Edmund burst into a peal of joyous laughter, and clapped his hands. This outburst of innocent merriment drew from Sir Nugent so fierce an expletive that Phoebe thought it prudent to go to his rescue.

Tom entered on a scene of turmoil. Chien was barking excitedly in Phoebe’s arms; Edmund was still laughing: Pett, attracted by his master’s anguished cries, was kneeling before him, tenderly smoothing the tassel; and Sir Nugent, red with fury, was describing in intemperate language the various forms of execution of which Chien was deserving.

Tom acted with great presence of mind, commanding Edmund so peremptorily to take Chien away that Edmund obeyed him without venturing on argument. He then frowned down Phoebe’s giggles, and mollified Sir Nugent by promising that Chien should not be allowed in the coffee-room again.

Informed of this ban Edmund was indignant, and had to be called to order for begging Tom to give Sir Nugent a pelt in the smeller. He retired in high dudgeon with Chien to the kitchen, where he spent the rest of the afternoon, playing with a lump of dough, and being regaled with raisins, marchpane, and candied peel.

On the following day Sir Nugent wisely forbore to wear his beautiful new boots; and Edmund surprised his protectors by behaving in such a saintly fashion that Sir Nugent began to look upon him with reluctant favour.

It came on to rain in the afternoon, and after drawing several unconvincing portraits, which he kindly bestowed on Phoebe, Edmund became a trifle disconsolate, but was diverted by raindrop races on the window-pane. He was kneeling on a chair, reporting the dilatory progress of her allotted drop to Phoebe, when a post-chaise and four came along the street, and drew up outside the Poisson Rouge.

Edmund was interested, but not more so than Phoebe, who no sooner heard the clatter of the approaching equipage than she came over to the window. It was the sound she had been hoping to hear, and as the chaise drew to a standstill her heart began to beat fast with hope.

The door was opened, and a figure in a caped overcoat of white drab sprang lightly down, turned to give some order to the postilions, and strode into the inn.

A long sigh escaped Phoebe; Master Rayne uttered a piercing scream, scrambled down from his chair, and tore across the room, shrieking: “Uncle Vester, Uncle Vester!”

23

Edmund succeeded in opening the door, still shrieking Uncle Vester! at the top of his voice, just as Sylvester reached the coffee-room. He was halted on the threshold by having his legs embraced, and said, as he bent to detach himself from his nephew’s frenzied grip: “Well, you noisy brat?”

“Uncle Vester, Uncle Vester!” cried Edmund.

Sylvester laughed, and swung him up. “Edmund, Edmund!” he mocked. “No, don’t strangle me! Oh, you rough nephew!”