"Yes, Terry has pretty hair."
"I would have said gorgeous. I love her eyes too, don't you?"
Lord Shortlands said that he thought his daughter had nice eyes, and the young man frowned.
"Not 'nice.' If we are going to talk about Terry, we must take a little trouble to get the right word. Her eyes are heavenly. I don't suppose there's another pair of eyes like that in existence. How do you check up on her nose? That way it turns up slightly at the tip."
"Ah," said Lord Shortlands, wisely refraining from a more definite expression of opinion in the presence of this evidently meticulous critic, and the young man paused to light a cigarette.
Lord Shortlands goggled at him with a solemn intentness. He could see what Terry had meant about the fellow being good-looking. The word understated it. He was sort of super-Spink. Sitting where he did, he presented his profile to Lord Shortlands, and the latter was able to study its clean-cut lines. There was no getting away from it. The chap began where Spink left off.
Mike Cardinal had finished lighting his cigarette and was ready to talk once more.
"Yes, she's got everything, hasn't she? I don't suppose you've the slightest conception of how I love that girl. What a great day that was when she came back into my life; on the hoof, as it were, and not merely as a golden, insubstantial memory. It happened quite by chance, and at a moment, oddly enough, when I was not thinking of her but of chump chops, Brussels sprouts and French-fried potatoes. I was sauntering through the grillroom here, looking for a table, and I saw a friend of mine sitting with a girl and went over to exchange a word, and—"
"Yes, she told me."
"Ah, she has been talking about me, has she? A promising sign. By the way, have I your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter? One likes to get these things settled."
"Well, dash it, you have been paying your addresses to her."
"Unofficially, yes. But unsuccessfully. And why unsuccessfully? Because unofficially."
"Say that again," said Lord Shortlands, whose mental powers were not at their keenest.
"What I mean is that I have not been going at this thing in the right way. I need official backing. If I had your approval of my suit, I feel sure I could swing the deal. A father's influence means so much. You could put in an occasional good word for me, guiding her mind in the right direction. Above all, you could invite me to Beevor for an indefinite stay, and in those romantic surroundings—"
"No, I couldn't. I can't invite people to Beevor."
"Nonsense. A child could do it."
Well, I can't. My daughter Adela won't let me."
"Ah? A nuisance, that. It's a pity I have never met Lady Adela."
"Wasn't she at Beevor when you were there?"
"No."
"Those were the days," sighed Lord Shortlands.
Mike rose to a point of order. His voice, when he spoke, was a little stern.
"Then how about Stanwood Cobbold?"
"Eh?"
"It seems to me that your whole story about not being able to invite people to Beevor falls to the ground. I was round at his place just now, and his man told me a telegram had arrived for him from you, freely extending your hospitality. I shall be glad to hear what you have to say to that."
"I never sent that telegram. It was Adela. Why. should I want the chap messing around? He's probably a perisher."
"Not at all."
"Well, his father is."
"Ah, there I cannot speak with firsthand knowledge. I have never met his father. But you'll like Stanwood. Everybody does. He's the best fellow that ever stepped, and I love him like a brother. When you get Stanwood, you've got something. However, to return to myself, I should have thought that, considering that I have already visited the castle and apparently gave satisfaction, seeing that nobody slung me out, Lady Adela would have stretched a point."
"Not a hope. She never asks anyone down who doesn't write or paint or something. They have to be these bally artistic blighters."
"Stanwood isn't an artistic blighter."
"He's an exception."
"I don't get in, then?"
"No, you don't."
"Well, it's all very exasperating. You see how I'm handicapped. No wooer can possibly give of his best if he's in London and the divine object is in Kent and won't answer the telephone. Have you a vacancy for a butler?"
Lord Shortlands sighed wistfully.
"I wish I had. But it wouldn't be any use you coming to Beevor. Terry won't marry you."
"She thinks she won't. But once let me get there—"
"There's some reason. She didn't tell me what."
Mike frowned.
"The reason is that she's a little fathead and doesn't know what's good for her," he said. "It is that fatheaded streak that I am straining every nerve to correct. I keep pointing out to her that it's no use looking like an angel if you can't spot a good man when you see one. And that she does look like an angel no one in his senses would deny. For the last five years I've been living in Hollywood, positively festooned with beautiful women, and I've never set eyes on one fit to be mentioned in the same breath with Terry. She stands alone."
"Yes, Terry told me you worked in Hollywood. Motion-picture agent or something, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"Must make a good thing out of it, what?"
"Quite satisfactory. Have no fear that I shall not be able, when the moment comes, to support your daughter in the style to which she has become accustomed. But it is absolutely essential, as I say, that I come to Beevor, for this business of pressing my suit by mail and having her tell someone to say 'She says she won't' on the telephone is getting me nowhere. Try to think of some method whereby I can be eased into the dear old place."
Lord Shortlands thought hard. An obviously amiable and well-disposed son-in-law with a lucrative connection in Hollywood was just what he had been scouring the country for for years. He was still thinking when Stanwood Cobbold returned, looking brighter and fitter. The cold-water cure had proved effective.
"Hiya, Mike," he cried, in quite a buoyant tone.
"Hello, there," said Mike, "You look extraordinarily roguish. How come? I stopped in at your place on my way here, and Augustus Robb told me you were a sort of living corpse."
"I had a Turkish bath, and I've just been putting my head under the cold tap."
"I see. Do you know Lord Shortlands?"
"Never heard of the guy."
"This is Lord Shortlands."
"Oh, sure, I know him. We've just been chatting. He was telling me about his cook."
"And this, Lord Shortlands, is the Stanwood Cobbold of whom you have heard so much; your forthcoming guest, who ... Why, what's the trouble?" asked Mike, concerned. Some powerful upheaval appeared to be taking place in the older man's system, manifesting itself outwardly in a sagging jaw and a popeyed stare of horror.
"Is your name Stanwood Cobbold?" cried Lord Shortlands, seeming to experience some difficulty in finding utterance.
"Sure. Why not? What's biting him, Mike?"
Mike was wondering the same thing himself. He hazarded a possible conjecture.
"I think it's joy. Augustus Robb tells me you are leaving today for Beevor Castle in the county of Kent. Lord Shortlands, who owns Beevor Castle, will consequently be your host. Apprised of this, he registers ecstasy. As who would not?"
Lord Shortlands was still finding it hard to speak.
"But this is terrible!"
"Oh, come. There's nothing wrong with Stanwood."
"You see, I want to marry my cook—"
"Well, that's all right by me. How about you, Stanwood?"
"—and I told him. Suppose, when he gets to Beevor, he lets it out to my daughter Adela?"
"She would not be pleased?"
"She would make my life a hell on earth. Is he the sort of chap who's likely to go babbling?" asked Lord Shortlands, fastening his protruding eyes on Stanwood as if seeking to read his very soul.