Part 27 (2/2)
”Don't hesitate to speak before Blatchford and Hawkes,” she said, to my astonishment. ”They are to be trusted implicitly. Isn't it true, Hawkes?”
”It is, Madam,” said he.
”Do you mean to say, Countess, that--”
”It has all been quite satisfactorily attended to through Mr.
p.o.o.pend.y.k.e,” she said. ”He consulted me before definitely engaging any one, Mr. Smart, and I referred him to my lawyers in Vienna. I do hope Hawkes and Blatchford and Henri, the chef, are quite satisfactory to you. They were recently employed by some one in the British emba.s.sy at--”
”Pray rest easy, Countess,” I managed to say, interrupting out of consideration for Hawkes and Blatchford, who, I thought, might feel uncomfortable at hearing themselves discussed so impersonally.
”Everything is most satisfactory. I did not realise that I had you to thank for my present mental and gastronomical comfort. You have surrounded me with diadems.”
Hawkes and Blatchford very gravely and in unison said: ”Thank you, sir.”
”And now let us talk about something else,” she said complacently, as if the project of getting the rest of her family into the castle were already off her mind. ”I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your last book, Mr. Smart. It is so exciting. Why do you call it 'The Fairest of the Fair'?”
”Because my publisher insisted on subst.i.tuting that t.i.tle for the one I had chosen myself. I'll admit that it doesn't fit the story, my dear Countess, but what is an author to do when his publisher announces that he has a beautiful head of a girl he wants to put on the cover and that the t.i.tle must fit the cover, so to speak?”
”But I don't consider it a beautiful head, Mr. Smart. A very flashy blonde with all the earmarks of having posed in the chorus between the days when she posed for your artist. And your heroine has very dark hair in the book. Why did they make her a blonde on the cover?”
”Because they didn't happen to have anything but blonde pictures in stock,” said I, cheerfully. ”A little thing like that doesn't matter, when it comes to literature, my dear Countess. It isn't the hair that counts. It's the hat.”
”But I should think it would confuse the reader,” she insisted. ”The last picture in the book has her with inky black hair, while in all the others she is quite blonde.”
”A really intelligent reader doesn't have to be told that the artist changed his model before he got to the last picture,” said I, and I am quite confident she didn't hear me grate my teeth.
”But the critics must have noticed the error and commented upon it.”
”My dear Countess, the critics never see the last picture in a book.
They are much too clever for that.”
She pondered. ”I suppose they must get horribly sick of all the books they have to read.”
”And they never have a chance to experience the delicious period of convalescence that persons with less chronic afflictions have to look forward to,” said I, very gently. ”They go from one disease to another, poor chaps.”
”I once knew an author at Newport who said he hated every critic on earth,” she said.
”I should think he might,” said I, without hesitation. It was not until the next afternoon that she got the full significance of the remark.
As I never encourage any one who seeks to discuss my stories with me, being a modest chap with a flaw in my vanity, she abandoned the subject after a few ineffectual attempts to find out how I get my plots, how I write my books, and how I keep from losing my mind.
”Would you be entertained by a real mystery?” she asked, leaning toward me with a gleam of excitement in her eyes. Very promptly I said I should be. We were having our coffee. Hawkes and Blatchford had left the room. ”Well, tradition says that one of the old barons buried a vast treasure in the cellar of this--”
”Stop!” I commanded, shaking my head. ”Haven't I just said that I don't want to talk about literature? Buried treasure is the very worst form of literature.”
”Very well,” she said indignantly. ”You will be sorry when you hear I've dug it up and made off with it.”
I p.r.i.c.ked up my ears. This made a difference. ”Are you going to hunt for it yourself?”
”I am,” she said resolutely.
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