“I never am. Haven’t you noticed that women with a really perfect profile like mine are seldom even moderately agreeable?”
“I don’t think your profile is so perfect as all that,” said the Baroness.
“It would be surprising if it wasn’t. My mother was one of the most noted classical beauties of her day.”
“These things sometimes skip a generation, you know,” put in the Baroness, with the breathless haste of one to whom repartee comes as rarely as the finding of a gold-handled umbrella.
“My dear Sophie,” said the Gräfin sweetly, “that isn’t in the least bit clever; but you do try so hard that I suppose I oughtn’t to discourage you. Tell me something: has it ever occurred to you that Elsa would do very well for Wratislav? It’s time he married somebody, and why not Elsa?”
“Elsa marry that dreadful boy!” gasped the Baroness.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” observed the Gräfin.
“Elsa isn’t a beggar!”
“Not financially, or I shouldn’t have suggested the match. But she’s getting on, you know, and has no pretensions to brains or looks or anything of that sort.”
“You seem to forget that she’s my daughter.”
“That shows my generosity. But, seriously, I don’t see what there is against Wratislav. He has no debts — at least, nothing worth speaking about.”
“But think of his reputation! If half the things they say about him are true —”
“Probably three-quarters of them are. But what of it? You don’t want an archangel for a son-inlaw.”
“I don’t want Wratislav. My poor Elsa would be miserable with him.”
“A little misery wouldn’t matter very much with her; it would go so well with the way she does her hair, and if she couldn’t get on with Wratislav she could always go and do good among the poor.”
The Baroness picked up a framed photograph from the table.
“He certainly is very handsome,” she said doubtfully; adding even more doubtfully, “I dare say dear Elsa might reform him.”
The Gräfin had the presence of mind to laugh in the right key.
Three weeks later the Gräfin bore down upon the Baroness Sophie in a foreign bookseller’s shop in the Graben, where she was, possibly, buying books of devotion, though it was the wrong counter for them.
“I’ve just left the dear children at the Rodenstahls’,” was the Gräfin’s greeting.
“Were they looking very happy?” asked the Baroness.
“Wratislav was wearing some new English clothes, so, of course, he was quite happy. I overheard him telling Toni a rather amusing story about a nun and a mousetrap, which won’t bear repetition. Elsa was telling every one else a witticism about the Triple Alliance being like a paper umbrella — which seems to bear repetition with Christian fortitude.”
“Did they seem much wrapped up in each other?”
“To be candid, Elsa looked as if she were wrapped up in a horse-rug. And why let her wear saffron colour?”
“I always think it goes with her complexion.”
“Unfortunately it doesn’t. It stays with it. Ugh. Don’t forget, you’re lunching with me on Thursday.”
The Baroness was late for her luncheon engagement the following Thursday.
“Imagine what has happened!” she screamed as she burst into the room.
“Something remarkable, to make you late for a meal,” said the Gräfin.
“Elsa has run away with the Rodenstahls’ chauffeur!”
“Kolossal!”
“Such a thing as that no one in our family has ever done,” gasped the Baroness.
“Perhaps he didn’t appeal to them in the same way,” suggested the Gräfin judicially.
The Baroness began to feel that she was not getting the astonishment and sympathy to which her catastrophe entitled her.
“At any rate,” she snapped, “now she can’t marry Wratislav.”
“She couldn’t in any case,” said the Gräfin; “he left suddenly for abroad last night.”
“For abroad! Where?”
“For Mexico, I believe.”
“Mexico! But what for? Why Mexico?”
“The English have a proverb, ‘Conscience makes cowboys of us all.’”
“I didn’t know Wratislav had a conscience.”
“My dear Sophie, he hasn’t. It’s other people’s consciences that send one abroad in a hurry. Let’s go and eat.”
The Easter Egg
It was distinctly hard lines for Lady Barbara, who came of good fighting stock, and was one of the bravest women of her generation, that her son should be so undisguisedly a coward. Whatever good qualities Lester Slaggby may have possessed, and he was in some respects charming, courage could certainly never be imputed to him. As a child he had suffered from childish timidity, as a boy from unboyish funk, and as a youth he had exchanged unreasoning fears for others which were more formidable from the fact of having a carefully thought-out basis. He was frankly afraid of animals, nervous with firearms, and never crossed the Channel without mentally comparing the numerical proportion of lifebelts to passengers. On horseback he seemed to require as many hands as a Hindu god, at least four for clutching the reins, and two more for patting the horse soothingly on the neck. Lady Barbara no longer pretended not to see her son’s prevailing weakness, with her usual courage she faced the knowledge of it squarely, and, mother-like, loved him none the less.
Continental travel, anywhere away from the great tourist tracks, was a favoured hobby with Lady Barbara, and Lester joined her as often as possible. Eastertide usually found her at Knobaltheim, an upland township in one of those small princedoms that make inconspicuous freckles on the map of Central Europe.
A long-standing acquaintanceship with the reigning family made her a personage of due importance in the eyes of her old friend the Burgomaster, and she was anxiously consulted by that worthy on the momentous occasion when the Prince made known his intention of coming in person to open a sanatorium outside the town. All the usual items in a programme of welcome, some of them fatuous and commonplace, others quaint and charming, had been arranged for, but the Burgomaster hoped that the resourceful English lady might have something new and tasteful to suggest in the way of loyal greeting. The Prince
