Part 14 (1/2)

Mary mounted the red baize step and sat down beside the solitary one.

”Don't you think it's time you had something to eat?” she shouted . . .

they were _so_ near the band, which at that moment was braying the waltz song from the ”Quaker Girl.” The old lady beamed, but shook her head:

”I'm very well where I am, my dear, I can see nicely and I'm glad I came.”

”But you can come back,” Mary persisted. ”This gentleman”--indicating Eloquent--”will take you to have some supper, and then he'll bring you back again just here if you like. . . . May I introduce Mr Gallup?

Mrs . . . I fear I don't know your name. . . .”

Eloquent stood below bowing stiffly, and offered his arm. The lady stood up, chuckled, winked cheerfully at Mary, and stepped down on to the floor.

”Well, since you _are_ so obliging,” she said, and took the proffered arm. ”You don't know me, Mr Gallup,” she continued, ”but you will do before the election's over. Don't look so down in the mouth, I shan't keep you long, just a snack's all I want, and to stamp my feet a bit, which they're uncommonly cold, and then you can go back to the sweet pretty thing that fetched you to do the civil--oh, I saw it all! what a pity she's the other side, isn't it? what a canva.s.ser she'd make with that smile . . . well, well, there's many a pretty Tory lady married a Radical before this _and_ changed her politics, so don't you lose heart . . . soup, yes, I'd fancy some soup . . . well, what a sight to be sure . . . and how do you feel things are going in the const.i.tuency? . . .”

But Eloquent had no need to answer. His charge kept up a continual flow of conversation, only punctuated by mouthfuls of food. When at last he took her back to the seat near the band, Mary had gone to supper and was nowhere to be seen.

”I'm much obliged to you, Mr Gallup,” said the lady, ”though you wouldn't have done it if you hadn't been forced. Now let an old woman give you a bit of advice. . . . _Look_ willin' whether you are or not.”

Poor Eloquent felt very much as though she had boxed his ears. A few minutes later he saw that the Elizabethan gentleman and Mary were seated on either side of his recent partner and were apparently well amused.

How did they do it?

And presently when Reggie Peel and Mary pa.s.sed him in the Boston he heard Peel say, ”Quite the most amusing person here to-night. I shall sit out the next two dances with her, I'm tired.”

”I was tired too, that's why . . .” they went out of earshot, and he never caught the end of the sentence.

Eloquent danced no more with Mary, nor did he sit out at all with the indomitable old lady, who, bright-eyed and vigilant, still watched from her post near the band. The end was really near, and he stood against the wall gloomily regarding Mary as she flew about in the arms--very closely in the arms as ruled by the new dancing--of a young barrister.

He was staying with the Campions and had, all the previous week, been helping heartily in the Liberal cause. He had come down from London especially to do so, but during Christmas week there was a truce on both sides, and he remained to enjoy himself.

Just then Eloquent hated him. He hated all these people who seemed to find it so easy to be amusing and amused. Yet he stayed till the very last dance watching Phyllida, the milkmaid, with intense disapproval, as, her sun-bonnet hanging round her neck, she tore through the Post Horn Gallop with that detestable barrister. He decided that the manners of the upper cla.s.ses, if easy and pleasant, were certainly much too free.

It was a fine clear night and he walked to his rooms in Marlehouse. He felt that he had not been a social success. He was much more at home on the platform than in the ball-room, yet he was shrewd enough to see that his lack of adaptability stood in his way politically.

How could he learn these things?

And as if in answer to his question, there suddenly sounded in his ears the fat chuckling voice of the black satin lady:

”Well, well, there's many a pretty Tory lady married a Radical before this, _and_ changed her politics, so don't you lose heart.”

CHAPTER X

”THE GANPIES”

”Father's mother,” living alone far away in the Forest of Dean, rarely came to Redmarley, and the children never went to visit her. A frail old lady to whom one was never presented save tidily clad and fresh from the hands of nurse for a few moments, with injunctions still ringing in one's ears as to the necessity for a quiet and decorous demeanour.

This was grandmother, a shadow rather than a reality.

The Ganpies were something very different. The name, an abbreviation for grandparents, was invented by Grantly when he was two years old, and long usage had turned it into a term of endearment. People who knew them well could never think of General and Mrs Grantly apart, each was the complement of the other; and for the Ffolliot children they represented a dual fount of fun and laughter, understanding and affection. They were the medium through which one beheld the never-ending pageant unrolled before the entranced eyes of such happy children as happened to ”belong” gloriously to one ”commanding the R.A.