Lord Tony’s Wife, Baroness Orczy [bill gates best books TXT] 📗

happier for his absence. The two young people have spent a considerable time together under the shadow of the gallery in the ballroom, and, if I mistake not, Lord Tony is making the most of his time.”

She talked very volubly and with a slight North-country brogue which no doubt made it a little difficult for the stranger to catch her every word. But evidently M. le duc had understood the drift of what she said, for now he rejoined with some acerbity:

“Mlle. de Kernogan is too well educated, I hope, to allow the attentions of any gentleman, against her father’s will.”

“Come, come, M. de Kernogan,” here interposed His Royal Highness with easy familiarity, “Lord Anthony Dewhurst is the son of my old friend the Marquis of Atiltone: one of our most distinguished families in this country, who have helped to make English history. He has moreover inherited a large fortune from his mother, who was a Cruche of Crewkerne and one of the richest heiresses in the land. He is a splendid fellow⁠—a fine sportsman, a loyal gentleman. His attentions to any young lady, however highborn, can be but flattering⁠—and I should say welcome to those who have her future welfare at heart.”

But in response to this gracious tirade, M. le duc de Kernogan bowed gravely, and his stern features did not relax as he said coldly:

“Your Royal Highness is pleased to take an interest in the affairs of my daughter. I am deeply grateful.”

There was a second’s awkward pause, for everyone felt that despite his obvious respect and deference M. le duc de Kernogan had endeavoured to inflict a snub upon the royal personage, and one or two hotheaded young fops in the immediate entourage even muttered the word: “Impertinence!” inaudibly through their teeth. Only His Royal Highness appeared not to notice anything unusual or disrespectful in M. le duc’s attitude. It seemed as if he was determined to remain good-humoured and pleasant. At any rate he chose to ignore the remark which had offended the ears of his entourage. Only those who stood opposite to His Highness, on the other side of the card table, declared afterwards that the Prince had frowned and that a haughty rejoinder undoubtedly hovered on his lips.

Be that as it may, he certainly did not show the slightest sign of ill-humour: quite gaily and unconcernedly he scooped up his winnings which Sir Percy Blakeney, who held the Bank, was at this moment pushing towards him.

“Don’t go yet, M. de Kernogan,” he said as the Frenchman made a movement to work his way out of the crowd, feeling no doubt that the atmosphere round him had become somewhat frigid if not exactly inimical, “don’t go yet, I beg of you. Pardi! Can’t you see that you have been bringing me luck? As a rule Blakeney, who can so well afford to lose, has the devil’s own good fortune, but tonight I have succeeded in getting some of my own back from him. Do not, I entreat you, break the run of my luck by going.”

“Oh, Monseigneur,” rejoined the old courtier suavely, “how can my poor presence influence the gods, who of a surety always preside over your Highness’ fortunes?”

“Don’t attempt to explain it, my dear sir,” quoth the Prince gaily. “I only know that if you go now, my luck may go with you and I shall blame you for my losses.”

“Oh! in that case, Monseigneur⁠ ⁠…”

“And with all that, Blakeney,” continued His Highness, once more taking up the cards and turning to his friend, “remember that we still await your explanation as to your coming so late to the ball.”

“An omission, your Royal Highness,” rejoined Blakeney, “an absence of mind brought about by your severity, and that of Her Grace. The trouble was that all my calculations with regard to the exact adjustment of the butterfly bow were upset when I realised that the set of the present day waistcoat would not harmonise with it. Less than two hours before I was due to appear at this ball my mind had to make a complete volte-face in the matter of cravats. I became bewildered, lost, utterly confused. I have only just recovered, and one word of criticism on my final efforts would plunge me now into the depths of despair.”

“Blakeney, you are absolutely incorrigible,” retorted His Highness with a laugh. “M. le duc,” he added, once more turning to the grave Frenchman with his wonted graciousness, “I pray you do not form your judgment on the gilded youth of England by the example of my friend Blakeney. Some of us can be serious when occasion demands, you know.”

“Your Highness is pleased to jest,” said M. de Kernogan stiffly. “What greater occasion for seriousness can there be than the present one. True, England has never suffered as France is suffering now, but she has engaged in a conflict against the most powerful democracy the world has ever known, she has thrown down the gauntlet to a set of human beasts of prey who are as determined as they are ferocious. England will not emerge victorious from this conflict, Monseigneur, if her sons do not realise that war is not mere sport and that victory can only be attained by the sacrifice of levity and of pleasure.”

He had dropped into French in response to His Highness’ remark, in order to express his thoughts more accurately. The Prince⁠—a little bored no doubt⁠—seemed disinclined to pursue the subject. Nevertheless, it seemed as if once again he made a decided effort not to show ill-humour. He even gave a knowing wink⁠—a wink!⁠—in the direction of his friend Blakeney and of Her Grace as if to beg them to set the ball of conversation rolling once more along a smoother⁠—a less boring⁠—path. He was obviously quite determined not to release M. de Kernogan from attendance near his royal person.

VI

As usual Sir Percy threw himself in the breach, filling the sudden pause with his infectious laugh:

“La!”