Uneasy Money, P. G. Wodehouse [little bear else holmelund minarik txt] 📗

his hair was thin, but he was not aggressively bald; his face was dull, but certainly not stupid. There was nothing in his outer man which thirty million dollars would not offset. As regarded his other qualities, his conversation was certainly not exhilarating. But that also was not, under certain conditions, an unforgivable thing. No, looking at the matter all round and weighing it with care, the real obstacle, Claire decided, was not any quality or lack of qualities in Dudley Pickering⁠—it was Lord Dawlish and the simple fact that it would be extremely difficult, if she discarded him in favor of a richer man without any ostensible cause, to retain her self-respect.

“I think he’s weakening.”

“Yes.”

Yes, that was the crux of the matter. She wanted to retain her good opinion of herself. And in order to achieve that end it was essential that she find some excuse, however trivial, for breaking off the engagement.

“His voice was quite hollow, poor dear! You know, Claire, I’m wild about Algie, but it would never do to let him think he could boss me. He’s the kind that if you give him a thingummy takes a what-d’you-call-it.”

“Yes?”

A waiter approached the table.

“Mr. Pickering?”

The thwarted lover came to life with a start.

“Eh?”

“A gentleman wishes to speak to you on the telephone.”

“Oh, yes. I was expecting a long-distance call, Lady Wetherby, and left word I should be here. Will you excuse me?”

Lady Wetherby watched him as he bustled across the room.

“What do you think of him, Claire?”

“Mr. Pickering? I think he’s very nice.”

“He admires you frantically. I hoped he would. That’s why I wanted you to come over on the same ship with him.”

“Polly! I had no notion that you were such a schemer.”

“I would just love to see you two fix it up,” continued Lady Wetherby earnestly. “He may not be what you might call a cut-up, but he’s a darned good sort, and thirty millions helps, doesn’t it? You don’t want to overlook that thirty millions, Claire!”

“I do like Mr. Pickering.”

“Claire, he asked me if you were engaged.”

“What!”

“When I told him you weren’t, he beamed. Honestly, you’ve only got to lift your little finger and⁠—Oh, good Lord, there’s Algie!”

Claire looked up. A dapper, trim little man of about forty was threading his way among the tables in their direction. It was a year since Claire had seen Lord Wetherby, but she recognized him at once. He had a red, weather-beaten face with a suspicion of side-whiskers, small, pink-rimmed eyes with sandy eyebrows, the smoothest of sandy hair, and a chin so cleanly shaven that it was difficult to believe that hair had ever grown there. Although his evening dress was perfect in every detail he conveyed a subtle suggestion of horsiness. He was one of those English aristocrats who seem just to have missed being grooms, and who escape the groom type only by their shiny cleanliness and the extreme excellence of the fit of their clothes. He reached the table and sat down without invitation in the vacant chair.

“Pauline!” he said sorrowfully.

“Algie,” said Lady Wetherby tensely, “I don’t know what you’ve come here for, and I don’t remember asking you to sit down and put your elbows on the table, but I want to begin by saying that I will not be called Pauline. My name’s Polly. You’ve got a way of saying Pauline, as if it were a gentlemanly cuss-word, that makes me want to scream. And while you’re about it, why don’t you say how-d’you-do to Claire? You ought to remember her, she was my bridesmaid.”

“How do you do, Miss Fenwick? Of course I remember you perfectly. I’m glad to see you again.”

“And now, Algie, what is it? Why have you come here?” Lord Wetherby looked doubtfully at Claire. “Oh, that’s all right,” said Lady Wetherby. “Claire knows all about it⁠—I told her.”

“Ah! Then if Miss Fenwick has heard of our little tiff⁠—”

“Don’t call it a little tiff. It was a scrap!”

“My dear! Really!”

“A scrap!” repeated Lady Wetherby firmly. “A regular all-in, what-Sherman-said scrap, which you began. And if you think you’re going to wriggle out of it by calling it a little tiff, take one additional guess!”

“My dear, I am not trying to wriggle out of it. I think I was justified in taking the attitude I did toward your snake Clarence. I appeal to Miss Fenwick, if, as you say, she knows all the facts of the case, to say whether it is reasonable to expect a man of my temperament, a nervous, highly strung artist, to welcome the presence of snakes at the breakfast table. I trust that I am not an unreasonable man, but I decline to admit that a long green snake is a proper thing to keep about the house.”

“You had no right to strike the poor thing.”

“In that one respect I was perhaps a little hasty. I happened to be stirring my tea at the moment his head rose above the edge of the table. I was not entirely myself that morning. My nerves were somewhat disordered. I had lain awake much of the night planning a canvas.”

“Planning a what?”

“A canvas, my dear⁠—a picture.”

Lady Wetherby turned to Claire.

“I want you to listen to Algie, Claire. You hear the way he pulls the art-yard stuff? A year ago he didn’t know one end of a paint brush from the other. He didn’t know he had any nerves. If you had brought him the artistic temperament on a plate with a bit of watercress round it, he wouldn’t have recognized it. And now, just because he’s got a studio in Washington Square, he thinks he has a right to be a sort of dopeless dope fiend, going up in the air if you speak to him suddenly and running about the place hitting snakes with teaspoons as if he were Michelangelo!”

“My dear, you do me an injustice. It is true that as an artist I developed late⁠—But why should we quarrel? If it will help to pave the way to