Chapter XII: The Shameless Behaviour of a Lordb

I

This is quite a simple story, but it is about a lord. The lord in question was John Tiberius Vincent de Guy, second Viscount Paramour, and he was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He was, in fact, so wealthy that Mr. Otto Kahn stood at attention when speaking to him and Mr. John D. Rockefeller burnt his tongue with his hot milk at the mere mention of his name. Of course, young Lord Paramour had not made the money himself; he merely decorated it. His father, the late Watt A. Guy, will be remembered as the inventor and promoter of the Paramour Safety Hairpin: which, it has been said, has made a deeper impress on contemporary life than any other invention except Beecham’s Pills. It was thought pretty decent of the old man that, when one day as he lay on his death-bed the Prime Minister dropped in to hand him a Viscounty, he instantly took as his title the name which had made his millions, and died Lord Paramour; in which choice some people of the meaner sort have professed to find a particular aptness, for had not (they asked) the most famous advertisement of the Hairpins, that one which has for more than a decade been emblazoned in coloured lights across the eastern end of Piccadilly Circus and has raised advertisement to the majesty of an institution--had not those letters of fire beseeched: “Buy Paramour, Lord of Hairpins. No Woman Should be Without”? Whereupon, to be sure, no woman was.

Of young Lord Paramour it must be said that he was a gentleman of spirit; the war found him no laggard; but he was not ambitious in the arts of peace. It pained some of his most worthy friends to see with what indomitable energy he pursued the professions of leisure and luxury; that he used his immense fortune and unusual parts--which it has always been the pleasure of worthy persons to discern in the immensely rich--to no other advantage than the decorations of his various palaces and castles, the lavish entertainment of his friends therein, and only the most unthinking exercise of charity; but those nearest to him were most of all displeased at his evasion of his duty to his line and to society, for young Lord Paramour showed a strong disinclination to marry. A pageant of young ladies of quality was passed before him in review, but he either heeded them not or remarked, in a most amiable manner, on the imperfections of line, carriage, and cosmetics which, he said, were apparent in the most recent generation of young ladies. There were not, of course, wanting a few ladies of determination to make a formidable attack on his celibacy on behalf of their daughters; but young Lord Paramour withstood them with what can only be called a humiliating ease.

II

The Albert Hall Ball, in aid of the hospitals of London, will be remembered by many people as one of the most brilliant entertainments of the brilliant season of 1922. But it will be remembered by Mrs. Lyon-West--she was a New York Lyon before she married a Hampshire West--for a remarkable conversation with young Lord Paramour, who, after dancing with her beautiful daughter, had drifted into her box. The word “drifted” is here used in its strictly nautical sense, for Lord Paramour had not the faintest idea into whose box he was entering. He had, after having danced with Miss Lyon-West (whose name he did not know, which is a grave reflection on the present state of society) discovered a distaste for the company of his guests in his own box, and had wandered to the first door he saw and shoved it open. Lord Paramour was an abstemious young man, but that night he had indulged in a glass or so of wine, wittily remarking to a friend that “a chap can’t dance in cold blood.”

“Why, good-evening, Lord Paramour!” cried Mrs. Lyon-West brightly.

“Ah,” said Lord Paramour. “’Evening. Sorry, I’m sure.” And he proceeded to drift out of the box again.

“But please don’t go so soon, Lord Paramour! I am _delighted_ to see you. Only a moment ago I was remarking how _beautifully_ you and my daughter were dancing together!”

“Your daughter? Ah!” And Lord Paramour, who couldn’t for the life of him remember the lady’s name, nor where he had met her, sat down and regarded her benevolently. “Better call her madam,” he thought to himself.

“Enchanting girl, madam. Enchanting dancer. Enchanting lines. Enchanting everything. In fact, madam, a very adequate girl, your daughter.”

“I am _so_ glad you like her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. Mrs. Lyon-West had a reputation to keep up as to brightness.

“Like her, madam!” cried Lord Paramour. “I like her enormously. Most girls, I find, are rather tiresome--but your daughter, madam, is most unusual. And she is witty, which is remarkable in a girl. Please don’t deny it--I distinctly heard her say something witty while we were dancing. She said, if I remember aright: ‘The art of dancing is not to dance but to avoid other dancers.’ Now that, madam, is a _mot_, in fact it is a _bon mot_. I am very partial to a bon mot, madam. And considering that I had just bumped the back of her head into some ass’s elbow I think it was very apt of her. I was much impressed by your daughter, madam.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “looks aren’t everything. A woman should be clever as well as beautiful----”

“Exactly,” said Lord Paramour. “Exactly. Or quite.”

“She reads such a lot!” sighed Mrs. Lyon-West.

“Well, well, there’s nothing like reading,” said Lord Paramour. “Personally, I can never find anything to read these days. Lot of septic trash.”

“But you are so fastidious, Lord Paramour!”

“Oh, not at the moment, madam!”

“Well, then, why are you so long getting married?” asked Mrs. Lyon-West with a bright smile.

“Lot of trash,” again sighed Lord Paramour. “Young women very inferior these days, madam. Always, of course, excepting your daughter.”

“Don’t except her. Marry her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West wittily.

“Not bad, that!” chuckled Lord Paramour. “But not good, either. Would she, d’you think, consider my advances favourably?”

Mrs. Lyon-West thought she would, and Lord Paramour sighed.

“Shall I tell you,” he put to her, “something that I have never told any one else? Shall I tell you why I have never married and why I cannot marry your daughter, enchanting though she is? Are you sure you will not be offended?”

“Tell me,” said Mrs. Lyon-West. “Oh, please tell me!” She had not dreamed of getting so far.

“Well, it’s like this,” began Lord Paramour sadly. “But I must put it delicately. If you have read or seen _Trilby_, you will remember that the three artist fellows were terribly upset on hearing that Trilby had sat to another artist fellow for the ‘altogether.’ You get my meaning, madam? You are not offended?”

Mrs. Lyon-West said she did and she wasn’t.

“Well, then, it’s like this. I am, madam, incapable, constitutionally, physically, and mentally incapable of marrying any one whom I have not seen in the ‘altogether’----”

“Sir,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “how dare you?”

“That’s just the point,” sighed Lord Paramour. “I daren’t. And that’s why I can’t marry any one.” He rose, saying sadly: “I knew you would be offended. Women are odd. Good-night, madam. Sorry, I’m sure. Enchanting girl, your daughter. She has promised me this dance. Good-night, madam.”

“Sir,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “good-night.”

III

Now a digression here on the attitude of worldly mothers to their daughters might be of interest, but would not further this story. Let it suffice, in the chronicle of the shameless behaviour of young Lord Paramour, to say that Mrs. Lyon-West was a mother after the Roman model, and exacted from her offspring no less than abject obedience in all matters which might obtain to her welfare; in which she was helped by the fact that her beautiful daughter, in the days following the Albert Hall Ball, showed a pleasing inclination for the company of the witty and elegant Lord Paramour. Whereupon Mrs. Lyon-West asked him down to the Lyon-West place for the week-end.

The omission of Mr. Lyon-West from this story may seem marked; and if we are going down there with Lord Paramour politeness demands a glance at him. Meet Mr. Lyon-West. He is a little gentleman with an amiable eye and a hard and soft tennis court on his head. He does not matter very much.

Among the other guests at the house-party, as they revealed themselves after dinner on Saturday night, were Lord Pro and Lady Con--who, as of course you know, is a Beaver in her own right. That amiable baronet, Sir Courtenay Langouste, sat in a secluded corner reading the 68th edition of _If Winter Comes_, while his lady near by cut the pages of the 69th edition. Major General Sir Auction Bridges was with Mr. Soda, hotly contesting Mr. Soda’s theory that hiccups was an infectious disease and could be prevented by inoculation. Lady Savoury, our first female M.P. and a great Improver, went about from group to group, indignantly remarking that it served Oscar Wilde right if only for saying that work is the curse of our drinking classes. Mrs. Custard, on the other hand, retired early, complaining that she was very short of long gloves.

During a break in the conversation, which was witty and sustained, Lord Paramour was understood to say that he would not be going to divine service the next day; and his hostess was obliging enough to say that, in that case, she too would not go to the morning service, but would walk Lord Paramour round the grounds; which would, she said, repay an early morning visit. Miss Lyon-West was understood to say that she came to the country for rest.

As, next morning, the countryside sweetly echoed with the songs of birds and church-bells, Lord Paramour and his hostess stepped out of the house upon the velvet sward. The broad sweep of park and woodland lay before them, soft and mellow in the haze of the morning sun, and Lord Paramour suggested a brisk walk, but Mrs. Lyon-West begged to be excused, saying she was enamoured of her rose garden; in which direction, skirting the spacious house, they leisurely betook themselves, talking of this and that in an elegant way.

“Penelope--” said Mrs. Lyon-West, for such was her daughter’s name--“Penelope loves gardens. Especially rose gardens.”

“Indeed,” said Lord. Paramour. “Well, there’s nothing like a rose garden.”

“_How_ I agree with you!” said Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. “Penelope, however, carries it almost to an infatuation.”

“’Pon my word!” said Lord Paramour.

“Yes, Lord Paramour. During the rose season, for instance, she _insists_ on occupying a suite on the ground floor, from which she can at any moment step out and bathe herself in the beauty of the flowers....”

“You turn a phrase very prettily, madam.”

“Oh, _thank_ you, Lord Paramour,” breathed Mrs. Lyon-West. “But, as you will understand, her occupying a bedroom and a bathroom just _there_ makes things just a leetle awkward. For she _insists_ on having her blinds drawn open, that she may enjoy the roses over her toilet, and so _of course_ the gardeners cannot enter the rose garden during the morning, as it distracts them from their work.”

“Lazy dogs!” cried Lord Paramour.

“Ah, here it is!” cried his hostess as, rounding an angle of the house, they came upon the rose garden. “It is supposed to be the best rose garden in the country.”

“Enchanting,” said Lord Paramour. “Enchanting, considering the gardeners do no work in it in the mornings.”

“Oh, there’s Niblick, the agent!” cried Mrs. Lyon-West. “I _must_ speak to him for a moment. Do excuse me a moment, Lord Paramour. I will be back in _one_ moment.”

Lord Paramour, of course, excused her; and very pleasantly whiled away twenty minutes with a cigarette in the rose garden. He paced about.... He saw the roses.... He saw a rose in particular, a white one....

IV

The day passed in elegant conversation, as is the way with the landed gentry all the world over. Lord Paramour and Miss Lyon-West, beautiful in vermilion _organdie_, went for a walk in the afternoon; but on their return Mrs. Lyon-West observed on her daughter’s cheeks none of those signs of pretty confusion which denote a happy consummation; they were still the pale cheeks of a young lady of fashion; they were unmantled.

Now it has frequently been said of Mrs. Lyon-West that she is indiscreet; but never that she is not brave.

That night, when the gentlemen had joined the ladies, and Mrs. Custard had retired, saying she had to go to Paris early in the morning as she was very short of long gloves, Mrs. Lyon-West addressed herself to Lord Paramour brightly:

“I hope,” she said, “that you enjoyed your walk in the rose garden?”

“Enchanting!” said Lord Paramour. “Enchanting.”

“I’m _so_ glad you liked it,” breathed Mrs. Lyon-West; and she looked at him steadfastly, the brave woman. “Well, Lord Paramour?”

“Ah,” said Lord Paramour thoughtfully.

She created a diversion by requiring a light for her cigarette, which Mr. Soda, with his well-known _galanterie_, instantly supplied.

“The only thing I’m not sure about,” whispered Lord Paramour, “is whether I like her nose. Sorry, I’m sure.”