Lang Andrew
The Disentanglers
‘“There is no lover in cocky,” says he.
‘“No Dr. Ingles!” said I.
‘“Yes, there is a Dr. Ingles, but he is not her lover, and your niece never met him. I bicycled to Tutbury lately, and, after examining the scene of Queen Mary’s captivity, I made a few inquiries. What I had always suspected proved to be true. Dr. Ingles was not present at that ball at the Bear at Tutbury.”
‘Well,’ Mrs. Nicholson went on, ‘you might have knocked me down with a feather! I had never asked my second cousins the question, not wanting them to guess about my affairs. But down I sat, and wrote to Maria, and got her answer. Barbara never saw Dr. Ingles! only heard the girls mention him, and his going to the war. And then, after that, by Mr. Jephson’s advice, I went and gave Barbara my mind. She should marry Mr. Jephson, who saved her life, or be the laughing stock of the country. I showed her up to herself, with her glass ball, and her teleopathy, and her sham love-letters, that she wrote herself, and all her humbug. She cried, and she fainted, and she carried on, but I went at her whenever she could listen to reason. So she said “Yes,” and I am the happy woman.’
‘And Mr. Jephson is to be congratulated on so sensible and veracious a bride,’ said Merton.
‘Oh, he says it is by no means an uncommon case, and that he has effected a complete cure, and they will be as happy as idiots,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, as she rose to depart.
She left Merton pensive, and not disposed to overrate human nature. ‘But there can’t be many fellows like Jephson,’ he said. ‘I wonder how much the six figures run to?’ But that question was never answered to his satisfaction.
VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE EXEMPLARY EARL
I. The Earl’s Long-Lost Cousin
‘A jilt in time saves nine,’ says the proverbial wisdom of our forefathers, adding, ‘One jilt makes many.’ In the last chapter of the book of this chronicle, we told how the mercenary Mr. Jephson proved false to the beautiful Miss Willoughby, who supported existence by her skill in deciphering and transcribing the manuscript records of the past. We described the consequent visit of Miss Willoughby to the office of the Disentanglers, and how she reminded Merton that he had asked her once ‘if she had a spark of the devil in her.’ She had that morning received, in fact, a letter, crawling but explicit, from the unworthy Jephson, her lover. Retired, he said, to the rural loneliness of Derbyshire, he had read in his own heart, and what he there deciphered convinced him that, as a man of honour, he had but one course before him: he must free Miss Willoughby from her engagement. The lady was one of those who suffer in silence. She made no moan, and no reply to Jephson’s letter; but she did visit Merton, and, practically, gave him to understand that she was ready to start as a Corsair on the seas of amorous adventure. She had nailed the black flag to the mast: unhappy herself, she was apt to have no mercy on the sentiments and affections of others.
Merton, as it chanced, had occasion for the services of a lady in this mood; a lady at once attractive, and steely-hearted; resolute to revenge, on the whole of the opposite sex, the baseness of a Fellow of his College. Such is the frenzy of an injured love – illogical indeed (for we are not responsible for the errors of isolated members of our sex), but primitive, natural to women, and even to some men, in Miss Willoughby’s position.
The occasion for such services as she would perform was provided by a noble client who, on visiting the office, had found Merton out and Logan in attendance. The visitor was the Earl of Embleton, of the North. Entering the rooms, he fumbled with the string of his eyeglass, and, after capturing it, looked at Logan with an air of some bewilderment. He was a tall, erect, slim, and well-preserved patrician, with a manner really shy, though hasty critics interpreted it as arrogant. He was ‘between two ages,’ a very susceptible period in the history of the individual.
‘I think we have met before,’ said the Earl to Logan. ‘Your face is not unfamiliar to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Logan, ‘I have seen you at several places;’ and he mumbled a number of names.
‘Ah, I remember now – at Lady Lochmaben’s,’ said Lord Embleton. ‘You are, I think, a relation of hers..’
‘A distant relation: my name is Logan.’
‘What, of the Restalrig family?’ said the Earl, with excitement.
‘A far-off kinsman of the Marquis,’ said Logan, adding, ‘May I ask you to be seated?’
‘This is really very interesting to me – surprisingly interesting,’ said the Earl. ‘What a strange coincidence! How small the world is, how brief are the ages! Our ancestors, Mr. Logan, were very intimate long ago.’
‘Indeed?’ said Logan.
‘Yes. I would not speak of it to everybody; in fact, I have spoken of it to no one; but recently, examining some documents in my muniment-room, I made a discovery as interesting to me as it must be to you. Our ancestors three hundred years ago – in 1600, to be exact – were fellow conspirators.’
‘Ah, the old Gowrie game, to capture the King?’ asked Logan, who had once kidnapped a cat.
His knowledge of history was mainly confined to that obscure and unexplained affair, in which his wicked old ancestor is thought to have had a hand.
‘That is it,’ said the visitor – ‘the Gowrie mystery! You may remember that an unknown person, a friend of your ancestor, was engaged?’
‘Yes,’ said Logan; ‘he was never identified. Was his name Harris?’
The peer half rose to his feet, flushed a fine purple, twiddled the obsolete little grey tuft on his chin, and sat down again.
‘I think I said, Mr. Logan, that the hitherto unidentified associate of your ancestor was a member of my own family. Our name is not Harris – a name very honourably borne – our family name is Guevara. My ancestor was a cousin of the brave Lord Willoughby.’
‘Most interesting! You must pardon me, but as nobody ever knew what you have just found out, you will excuse my ignorance,’ said Logan, who, to be sure, had never heard of the brave Lord Willoughby.
‘It is I who ought to apologise,’ said the visitor. ‘Your mention of the name of Harris appeared to me to indicate a frivolity as to matters of the past which, I must confess, is apt to make me occasionally forget myself. Noblesse oblige, you know: we respect ourselves – in our progenitors.’
‘Unless he wants to prevent someone from marrying his great-grandmother, I wonder what he is doing with his Tales of a Grandfather here,’ thought Logan, but he only smiled, and said, ‘Assuredly – my own opinion. I wish I could respect my ancestor!’
‘The gentleman of whom I speak, the associate of your own distant progenitor, was the founder of our house, as far as mere titles are concerned. We were but squires of Northumbria, of ancient Celtic descent, before the time of Queen Elizabeth. My ancestor at that time – ’
‘Oh bother his pedigree!’ thought Logan.
‘ – was a young officer in the English garrison of Berwick, and he, I find, was your ancestor’s unknown correspondent. I am not skilled in reading old hands, and I am anxious to secure a trustworthy person – really trustworthy – to transcribe the manuscripts which contain these exciting details.’
Logan thought that the office of the Disentanglers was hardly the place to come to in search of an historical copyist. However, he remembered Miss Willoughby, and said that he knew a lady of great skill and industry, of good family too, upon whom his client might entirely depend. ‘She is a Miss Willoughby,’ he added.
‘Not one of the Willoughbys of the Wicket, a most worthy, though unfortunate house, nearly allied, as I told you, to my own, about three hundred years ago?’ said the Earl.
‘Yes, she is a daughter of the last squire.’
‘Ruined in the modern race for wealth, like so many!’ exclaimed the peer, and he sat in silence, deeply moved; his lips formed a name familiar to Law Courts.
‘Excuse my emotion, Mr. Logan,’ he went on. ‘I shall be happy to see and arrange with this lady, who, I trust will, as my cousin, accept my hospitality at Rookchester. I shall be deeply interested, as you, no doubt, will also be, in the result of her researches into an affair which so closely concerns both you and me.’
He was silent again, musing deeply, while Logan marvelled more and more what his real original business might be. All this affair of the documents and the muniment-room had arisen by the merest accident, and would not have arisen if the Earl had found Merton at home. The Earl obviously had a difficulty in coming to the point: many clients had. To approach a total stranger on the most intimate domestic affairs (even if his ancestor and yours were in a big thing together three hundred years ago) is, to a sensitive patrician, no easy task. In fact, even members of the middle class were, as clients, occasionally affected by shyness.
‘Mr. Logan,’ said the Earl, ‘I am not a man of to-day. The cupidity of our age, the eagerness with which wealthy aliens are welcomed into our best houses and families, is to me, I may say, distasteful. Better that our coronets were dimmed than that they should be gilded with the gold eagles of Chicago or blazing with the diamonds of Kimberley. My feelings on this point are unusually – I do not think that they are unduly – acute.’
Logan murmured assent.
‘I am poor,’ said the Earl, with all the expansiveness of the shy; ‘but I never held what is called a share in my life.’
‘It is long,’ said Logan, with perfect truth, ‘since anything of that sort was in my own possession. In that respect my ’scutcheon, so to speak, is without a stain.’
‘How fortunate I am to have fallen in with one of sentiments akin to my own, unusual as they are!’ said the Earl. ‘I am a widower,’ he went on, ‘and have but one son and one daughter.’
‘He is coming to business now,’ thought Logan.
‘The former, I fear, is as good almost as affianced – is certainly in peril of betrothal – to a lady against whom I have not a word to say, except that she is inordinately wealthy, the sole heiress of – ’ Here the Earl gasped, and was visibly affected. ‘You may have heard, sir,’ the patrician went on, ‘of a commercial transaction of nature unfathomable to myself – I have not sought for information,’ he waved his hand impatiently, ‘a transaction called a Straddle?’
Logan murmured that he was aware of the existence of the phrase, though unconscious of its precise meaning.
‘The lady’s wealth is based on a successful Straddle, operated by her only known male ancestor, in – Bristles – Hogs’ Bristles and Lard,’ said the Earl.
‘Miss Bangs!’ exclaimed Logan, knowing the name, wealth, and the source of the wealth of the ruling Chicago heiress of the day.
‘I am to be understood to speak of Miss Bangs – as her name has been pronounced between us – with all the respect due to youth, beauty, and an amiable disposition,’ said the peer; ‘but Bristles, Mr. Logan, Hogs’ Bristles and Lard. And a Straddle!’
‘Lucky devil, Scremerston,’ thought Logan, for Scremerston was the only son of Lord Embleton, and he, as it seemed, had secured that coveted prize of the youth of England, the heart of the opulent Miss Bangs. But Logan only sighed and stared at the wall as one who hears of an irremediable disaster.
‘If they really were betrothed,’ said Lord Embleton, ‘I would have nothing to say or do in the way of terminating the connection, however unwelcome. A man’s word is his word. It is in these circumstances of doubt (when the fortunes of a house ancient, though titularly of mere Tudor noblesse, hang in the balance) that, despairing of other help, I have come to you.’
‘But,’ asked Logan, ‘have things gone so very far? Is the disaster irremediable? I am acquainted with your son, Lord Scremerston; in fact, he was my fag at school. May I speak quite freely?’
‘Certainly; you will oblige me.’
‘Well, by the candour of early friendship, Scremerston was called the Arcadian, an allusion to a certain tenderness of heart allied with – h’m – a rather confident and sanguine disposition. I think it may console you to reflect that perhaps he rather overestimates his success with the admirable young lady of whom we spoke. You are not certain that she has accepted him?’
‘No,’ said the Earl, obviously relieved. ‘I am sure that he has not positively proposed to her. He knows my opinion: he is a dutiful son, but he did seem very confident – seemed to think that his honour was engaged.’
‘I think we may discount that a little,’ said Logan, ‘and hope for the best.’
‘I shall try to take that view,’ said the Earl. ‘You console me infinitely, Mr. Logan.’
Logan was about to speak again, when his client held up a gently deprecating hand.
‘That is not all, Mr. Logan. I have a daughter – ’
Logan chanced to be slightly acquainted with the daughter, Lady Alice Guevara, a very nice girl.
‘Is she attached to a South African Jew?’ Logan thought.
‘In this case,’ said the client, ‘there is no want of blood; Royal in origin, if it comes to that. To the House of Bourbon I have no objection, in itself, that would be idle affectation.’
Logan gasped.
Was this extraordinary man anxious to reject a lady ‘multimillionaire’ for his son, and a crown of some sort or other for his daughter?
‘But the stain of ill-gotten gold – silver too – is ineffaceable.’
‘It really cannot be Bristles this time,’ thought Logan.
‘And a dynasty based on the roulette-table… ’
‘Oh, the Prince of Scalastro!’ cried Logan.
‘I see that you know the worst,’ said the Earl.
Logan knew the worst fairly well. The Prince of Scalastro owned a percentage of two or three thousand which Logan had dropped at the tables licensed in his principality.
‘To the Prince, personally, I bear no ill-will,’ said the Earl. ‘He is young, brave, scientific, accomplished, and this unfortunate attachment began before he inherited his – h’m – dominions. I fear it is, on both sides, a deep and passionate sentiment. And now, Mr. Logan, you know the full extent of my misfortunes: what course does your experience recommend? I am not a harsh father. Could I disinherit Scremerston, which I cannot, the loss would not be felt by him in the circumstances. As to my daughter – ’
The peer rose and walked to the window. When he came back and resumed his seat, Logan turned on him a countenance of mournful sympathy. The Earl silently extended his hand, which Logan took. On few occasions had a strain more severe been placed on his gravity, but, unlike a celebrated diplomatist, he ‘could command his smile.’
‘Your case,’ he said, ‘is one of the most singular, delicate, and distressing which I have met in the course of my experience. There is no objection to character, and poverty is not the impediment: the reverse. You will permit me, no doubt, to consult my partner, Mr. Merton; we have naturally no secrets between us, and he possesses a delicacy of touch and a power of insight which I can only regard with admiring envy. It was he who carried to a successful issue that difficult case in the family of the Sultan of Mingrelia (you will observe that I use a fictitious name). I can assure you, Lord Embleton, that polygamy presents problems almost insoluble; problems of extreme delicacy – or indelicacy.’
‘I had not heard of that affair,’ said the Earl. ‘Like Eumæus in Homer and in Mr. Stephen Phillips, I dwell among the swine, and come rarely to the city.’
‘The matter never went beyond the inmost diplomatic circles,’ said Logan. ‘The Sultan’s favourite son, the Jam, or Crown Prince, of Mingrelia (Jamreal, they called him), loved four beautiful Bollachians, sisters – again I disguise the nationality.’
‘Sisters!’ exclaimed the peer; ‘I have always given my vote against the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill; but four, and all alive!’
‘The law of the Prophet, as you are aware, is not monogamous,’ said Logan; ‘and the Eastern races are not averse to connections which are reprobated by our Western ideas. The real difficulty was that of religion.
‘Oh, why from the heretic girl of my soul
Should I fly, to seek elsewhere an orthodox kiss?’
hummed Logan, rather to the surprise of Lord Embleton. He went on: ‘It is not so much that the Mingrelians object to mixed marriages in the matter of religion, but the Bollachians, being Christians, do object, and have a horror of polygamy. It was a cruel affair. All four girls, and the Jamreal himself, were passionately attached to each other. It was known, too, that, for political reasons, the maidens had received a dispensation from the leading Archimandrite, their metropolitan, to marry the proud Paynim. The Mingrelian Sultan is suzerain of Bollachia; his native subjects are addicted to massacring the Bollachians from religious motives, and the Bollachian Church (Nestorians, as you know) hoped that the four brides would convert the Jamreal to their creed, and so solve the Bollachian question. The end, they said, justified the means.’
‘Jesuitical,’ said the Earl, shaking his head sadly.
‘That is what my friend and partner, Mr. Merton, thought,’ said Logan, ‘when we were applied to by the Sultan. Merton displayed extraordinary tact and address. All was happily settled, the Sultan and the Jamreal were reconciled, the young ladies met other admirers, and learned that what they had taken for love was but a momentary infatuation.’
The Earl sighed, ‘Renovare dolorem! My family,’ said he, ‘is, and has long been – ever since the Gunpowder Plot – firmly, if not passionately, attached to the Church of England. The Prince of Scalastro is a Catholic.’
‘Had we a closer acquaintance with the parties concerned!’ murmured Logan.
‘You must come and visit us at Rookchester,’ said the Earl. ‘In any case I am most anxious to know better one whose ancestor was so closely connected with my own. We shall examine my documents under the tuition of the lady you mentioned, Miss Willoughby, if she will accept the hospitality of a kinsman.’
Logan murmured acquiescence, and again asked permission to consult Merton, which was granted. The Earl then shook hands and departed, obviously somewhat easier in his mind.
This remarkable conversation was duly reported by Logan to Merton.
‘What are we to do next?’ asked Logan.
‘Why you can do nothing but reconnoitre. Go down to Rookchester. It is in Northumberland, on the Coquet – a pretty place, but there is no fishing just now. Then we must ask Lord Embleton to meet Miss Willoughby. The interview can be here: Miss Willoughby will arrive, chaperoned by Miss Blossom, after the Earl makes his appearance.’
‘That will do, as far as his bothering old manuscripts are concerned; but how about the real business – the two undesirable marriages?’
‘We must first see how the land lies. I do not know any of the lovers. What sort of fellow is Scremerston?’
‘Nothing remarkable about him – good, plucky, vain little fellow. I suppose he wants money, like the rest of the world: but his father won’t let him be a director of anything, though he is in the House and his name would look well on a list.’
‘So he wants to marry dollars?’
‘I suppose he has no objection to them; but have you seen Miss Bangs?’
‘I don’t remember her,’ said Merton.
‘Then you have not seen her. She is beautiful, by Jove; and, I fancy, clever and nice, and gives herself no airs.’
‘And she has all that money, and yet the old gentleman objects!’
‘He can not stand the bristles and lard,’ said Logan.
‘Then the Prince of Scalastro – him I have come across. You would never take him for a foreigner,’ said Merton, bestowing on the Royal youth the highest compliment which an Englishman can pay, but adding, ‘only he is too intelligent and knows too much.’
‘No; there is nothing the matter with him,’ Logan admitted – ‘nothing but happening to inherit a gambling establishment and the garden it stands in. He is a scientific character – a scientific soldier. I wish we had a few like him.’
‘Well, it is a hard case,’ said Merton. ‘They all seem to be very good sort of people. And Lady Alice Guevara? I hardly know her at all; but she is pretty enough – tall, yellow hair, brown eyes.’
‘And as good a girl as lives,’ added Logan. ‘Very religious, too.’
‘She won’t change her creed?’ asked Merton.
‘She would go to the stake for it,’ said Logan. ‘She is more likely to convert the Prince.’
‘That would be one difficulty out of the way,’ said Merton. ‘But the gambling establishment? There is the rub! And the usual plan won’t work. You are a captivating person, Logan, but I do not think that you could attract Lady Alice’s affections and disentangle her in that way. Besides, the Prince would have you out. Then Miss Bangs’ dollars, not to mention herself, must have too strong a hold on Scremerston. It really looks too hard a case for us on paper. You must go down and reconnoitre.’
Logan agreed, and wrote asking Lord Embleton to come to the office, where he could see Miss Willoughby and arrange about her visit to him and his manuscripts. The young lady was invited to arrive rather later, bringing Miss Blossom as her companion.
On the appointed day Logan and Merton awaited Lord Embleton. He entered with an air unwontedly buoyant, and was introduced to Merton. The first result was an access of shyness. The Earl hummed, began sentences, dropped them, and looked pathetically at Logan. Merton understood. The Earl had taken to Logan (on account of their hereditary partnership in an ancient iniquity), and it was obvious that he would say to him what he would not say to his partner. Merton therefore withdrew to the outer room (they had met in the inner), and the Earl delivered himself to Logan in a little speech.
‘Since we met, Mr. Logan,’ said he, ‘a very fortunate event has occurred. The Prince of Scalastro, in a private interview, has done me the honour to take me into his confidence. He asked my permission to pay his addresses to my daughter, and informed me that, finding his ownership of the gambling establishment distasteful to her, he had determined not to renew the lease to the company. He added that since his boyhood, having been educated in Germany, he had entertained scruples about the position which he would one day occupy, that he had never entered the rooms (that haunt of vice), and that his acquaintance with my daughter had greatly increased his objections to gambling, though his scruples were not approved of by his confessor, a very learned priest.’
‘That is curious,’ said Logan.
‘Very,’ said the Earl. ‘But as I expect the Prince and his confessor at Rookchester, where I hope you will join us, we may perhaps find out the reasons which actuate that no doubt respectable person. In the meantime, as I would constrain nobody in matters of religion, I informed the Prince that he had my permission to – well, to plead his cause for himself with Lady Alice.’
Logan warmly congratulated the Earl on the gratifying resolve of the Prince, and privately wondered how the young people would support life, when deprived of the profits from the tables.
It was manifest, however, from the buoyant air of the Earl, that this important question had never crossed his mind. He looked quite young in the gladness of his heart, ‘he smelled April and May,’ he was clad becomingly in summer raiment, and to Logan it was quite a pleasure to see such a happy man. Some fifteen years seemed to have been taken from the age of this buxom and simple-hearted patrician.
He began to discuss with Logan all conceivable reasons why the Prince’s director had rather discouraged his idea of closing the gambling-rooms for ever.
‘The Father, Father Riccoboni, is a Jesuit, Mr. Logan,’ said the Earl gravely. ‘I would not be uncharitable, I hope I am not prejudiced, but members of that community, I fear, often prefer what they think the interests of their Church to those of our common Christianity. A portion of the great wealth of the Scalastros was annually devoted to masses for the souls of the players – about fifteen per cent. I believe – who yearly shoot themselves in the gardens of the establishment.’
‘No more suicides, no more subscriptions, I suppose,’ said Logan; ‘but the practice proved that the reigning Princes of Scalastro had feeling hearts.’
While the Earl developed this theme, Miss Willoughby, accompanied by Miss Blossom, had joined Merton in the outer room. Miss Blossom, being clad in white, with her blue eyes and apple-blossom complexion, looked like the month of May. But Merton could not but be struck by Miss Willoughby. She was tall and dark, with large grey eyes, a Greek profile, and a brow which could, on occasion, be thunderous and lowering, so that Miss Willoughby seemed to all a remarkably fine young woman; while the educated spectator was involuntarily reminded of the beautiful sister of the beautiful Helen, the celebrated Clytemnestra. The young lady was clad in very dark blue, with orange points, so to speak, and compared with her transcendent beauty, Miss Blossom, as Logan afterwards remarked, seemed a
‘Wee modest crimson-tippit beastie,’
he intending to quote the poet Burns.
After salutations, Merton remarked to Miss Blossom that her well-known discretion might prompt her to take a seat near the window while he discussed private business with Miss Willoughby. The good-humoured girl retired to contemplate life from the casement, while Merton rapidly laid the nature of Lord Embleton’s affairs before the other lady.
‘You go down to Rookchester as a kinswoman and a guest, you understand, and to do the business of the manuscripts.’
‘Oh, I shall rather like that than otherwise,’ said Miss Willoughby, smiling.
‘Then, as to the regular business of the Society, there is a Prince who seems to be thought unworthy of the daughter of the house; and the son of the house needs disentangling from an American heiress of great charm and wealth.’
‘The tasks might satisfy any ambition,’ said Miss Willoughby. ‘Is the idea that the Prince and the Viscount should both neglect their former flames?’
‘And burn incense at the altar of Venus Verticordia,’ said Merton, with a bow.
‘It is a large order,’ replied Miss Willoughby, in the simple phrase of a commercial age: but as Merton looked at her, and remembered the vindictive feeling with which she now regarded his sex, he thought that she, if anyone, was capable of executing the commission. He was not, of course, as yet aware of the moral resolution lately arrived at by the young potentate of Scalastro.
‘The manuscripts are the first thing, of course,’ he said, and, as he spoke, Logan and Lord Embleton re-entered the room.
Merton presented the Earl to the ladies, and Miss Blossom soon retired to her own apartment, and wrestled with the correspondence of the Society and with her typewriting-machine.
The Earl proved not to be nearly so shy where ladies were concerned. He had not expected to find in his remote and long-lost cousin, Miss Willoughby, a magnificent being like Persephone on a coin of Syracuse, but it was plain that he was prepossessed in her favour, and there was a touch of the affectionate in his courtesy. After congratulating himself on recovering a kinswoman of a long-separated branch of his family, and after a good deal of genealogical disquisition, he explained the nature of the lady’s historical tasks, and engaged her to visit him in the country at an early date. Miss Willoughby then said farewell, having an engagement at the Record Office, where, as the Earl gallantly observed, she would ‘make a sunshine in a shady place.’
When she had gone, the Earl observed, ‘Bon sang ne peut pas mentir! To think of that beautiful creature condemned to waste her lovely eyes on faded ink and yellow papers! Why, she is, as the modern poet says, “a sight to make an old man young.”’
He then asked Logan to acquaint Merton with the new and favourable aspect of his affairs, and, after fixing Logan’s visit to Rookchester for the same date as Miss Willoughby’s, he went off with a juvenile alertness.
‘I say,’ said Logan, ‘I don’t know what will come of this, but something will come of it. I had no idea that girl was such a paragon.’
‘Take care, Logan,’ said Merton. ‘You ought only to have eyes for Miss Markham.’
Miss Markham, the precise student may remember, was the lady once known as the Venus of Milo to her young companions at St. Ursula’s. Now mantles were draped on her stately shoulders at Madame Claudine’s, and Logan and she were somewhat hopelessly attached to each other.
‘Take care of yourself at Rookchester,’ Merton went on, ‘or the Disentangler may be entangled.’
‘I am not a viscount and I am not an earl,’ said Logan, with a reminiscence of an old popular song, ‘nor I am not a prince, but a shade or two wuss; and I think that Miss Willoughby will find other marks for the artillery of her eyes.’
‘We shall have news of it,’ said Merton.
