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Page 66
"Just like that!" he said. "I was telling Miss Willoughby," he
added apologetically to Mrs. Twemlow, "about the cats in London.
They were a great trial."
For perhaps three seconds his social reputation swayed to and fro
in the balance, while the company pondered on what he had done.
It was new; but it was humorous--or was it vulgar? There is
nothing the English upper servant so abhors as vulgarity. That
was what the steward's room was trying to make up its mind about.
Then Miss Willoughby threw her shapely head back and the squeal
of her laughter smote the ceiling. And at that the company made
its decision. Everybody laughed. Everybody urged Ashe to give an
encore. Everybody was his friend and admirer---everybody but
Beach, the butler. Beach, the butler, was shocked to his very
core. His heavy-lidded eyes rested on Ashe with disapproval. It
seemed to Beach, the butler, that this young man Marson had got
above himself.
* * *
Ashe found Joan at his side. Dinner was over and the diners were
making for the housekeeper's room.
"Thank you, Mr. Marson. That was very good of you and very
clever." Her eyes twinkled. "But what a terrible chance you took!
You have made yourself a popular success, but you might just as
easily have become a social outcast. As it is, I am afraid Mr.
Beach did not approve."
"I'm afraid he didn't. In a minute or so I'm going to fawn on him
and make all well."
Joan lowered her voice.
"It was quite true, what that odious little man said. Freddie
Threepwood did write me letters. Of course I destroyed them long
ago."
"But weren't you running the risk in coming here that he might
recognize you? Wouldn't that make it rather unpleasant for you?"
"I never met him, you see. He only wrote to me. When he came to
the station to meet us this evening he looked startled to see me;
so I suppose he remembers my appearance. But Aline will have told
him that my name is Simpson."
"That fellow Judson said he was brooding. I think you ought to
put him out of his misery."
"Mr. Judson must have been letting his imagination run away with
him. He is out of his misery. He sent a horrid fat man named
Jones to see me in London about the letters, and I told him I had
destroyed them. He must have let him know that by this time."
"I see."
They went into the housekeeper's room. Mr. Beach was standing
before the fire. Ashe went up to him. It was not an easy matter
to mollify Mr. Beach. Ashe tried the most tempting topics. He
mentioned swollen feet--he dangled the lining of Mr. Beach's
stomach temptingly before his eyes; but the butler was not to be
softened. Only when Ashe turned the conversation to the subject
of the museum did a flicker of animation stir him.
Mr. Beach was fond and proud of the Blandings Castle museum. It
had been the means of getting him into print for the first and
only time in his life. A year before, a representative of the
Intelligencer and Echo, from the neighboring town of Blatchford,
had come to visit the castle on behalf of his paper; and he had
begun one section of his article with the words: "Under the
auspices of Mr. Beach, my genial cicerone, I then visited his
lordship's museum--" Mr. Beach treasured the clipping in a
special writing-desk.
He responded almost amiably to Ashe's questions. Yes; he had seen
the scarab--he pronounced it scayrub--which Mr. Peters had
presented to his lordship. He understood that his lordship
thought very highly of Mr. Peters' scayrub. He had overheard Mr.
Baxter telling his lordship that it was extremely valuable.
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