“Very much so indeed, sir!” answered Mr. Stevens with his pallid glance on the array of bottles. “‘Three Star,’ I think, Mr. Brimberly?”
“Sir,” sighed Mr. Brimberly in gentle reproach, “you ‘ere be’old Cognac brandy as couldn’t be acquired for twenty-five dollars the bottle! Then ‘ere we ‘ave jubilee port, a rare old sherry, and whisky. Now what shall we make it? You, being like myself, a Englishman in this ‘ere land of eagles, spread and otherwise, suppose we make it a B and a Hess?”
“By all means!” nodded Mr. Stevens.
“I was meditating,” said Mr. Brimberly, busied with the bottles and glasses, “I was cogitating calling hup Mr. Jenkins, the Stanways’ butler across the way. The Stanways is common people, parvynoo, Mr. Stevens, parvynoo, but Mr. Jenkins is very superior and plays the banjer very affecting. Our ‘ousekeeper and the maids is gone to bed, and I’ve give our footmen leave of habsence—I thought we might ‘ave a nice, quiet musical hour or so. You perform on the piano-forty, I believe, sir?”
“Only very occasional!” Mr. Stevens admitted. “But,” and here his pale eyes glanced toward the door, “do I understand as he is out for the night?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, “what ”e’ might you be pleased to mean?”
“I was merely allooding to—to your governor, sir.”
Mr. Brimberly glanced at his guest, set down the glass he was in the act of filling and—pulled down his waistcoat for the second time.
“Sir,” said he, and his cherubic whiskers seemed positively to quiver, “I presoom—I say, I presoom you are referring to—Young Har?”
“I meant Mr. Ravenslee.”
“Then may I beg that you’ll allood to him ‘enceforth as Young Har? This is Young Har’s own room, sir. These is Young Har’s own picters, sir. When Young Har is absent, I generally sit ‘ere with me cigar and observe said picters. I’m fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful. The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har’s very own ‘and—subjeks various. Number one—a windmill very much out o’ repair, but that’s hart, sir. Number two—a lady dressed in what I might term dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn’t much of it, but that’s hart again. Number three—a sunset. Number four—moonlight; ‘e didn’t get the moon in the picter but the light’s there and that’s the great thing—effect, sir, effect! Of course, being only studies, they don’t look finished—which is the most hartisticest part about ‘em! But, lord! Young Har never finishes anything—too tired! ‘Ang me, sir, if I don’t think ‘e were born tired! But then, ‘oo ever knew a haristocrat as wasn’t?”
“But,” demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, “I thought ‘e was a American, your—Young Har?”
“Why, ‘e is and ‘e ain’t, sir. His father was only a American, I’ll confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and as truly English as—as I am!”
“And is ‘e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing, don’t ‘e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain’t ‘e? My governor’s seen him box and says ‘e’s a perfect snorter, by Jove!”
Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.
“Why, yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid ‘e does box—but only as a ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!”
“And he’s out making a night of it, is ‘e?” enquired Mr. Stevens, leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs. “Bit of a rip, ain’t ‘e?”
“A—wot, sir?” enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.
“Well, very wild, ain’t he—drinks, gambles, and hetceteras, don’t he?”
“Why, as to that, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly, dexterously performing on the syphon, “I should answer you, drink ‘e may, gamble ‘e do, hetceteras I won’t answer for, ‘im being the very hacme of respectability though ‘e is a millionaire and young.”
“And when might you expect ‘im back?”
“Why, there’s no telling, Mr. Stevens.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and sat up very suddenly.
“‘Is movements, sir, is quite—ah—quite metehoric!”
“My eye!” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, gulping his brandy and soda rather hastily.
“Metehoric is the only word for it, sir!” pursued Mr. Brimberly with a slow nod. “‘E may drop in on me at any moment, sir!”
“Why, then,” said his guest, rising, “p’r’aps I’d better be moving?”
“On the other ‘and,” pursued Mr. Brimberly, smiling and caressing his left whisker, “‘e may be on ‘is way to Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor at this precise moment—’e is that metehoric, lord! These millionaires is much of a muchness, sir, ‘ere to-day, gone to-morrer. Noo York this week, London or Paris the next. Young Har is always upsetting my plans, ‘e is, and that’s a fact, sir! Me being a nat’rally quiet, reasonable, and law-abiding character, I objects to youthful millionaires on principle, Mr. Stevens, on principle!”
“Ditto!” nodded Mr. Stevens, his glance wandering uneasily to the door again, “ditto with all my ‘eart, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I think p’r’aps I’d better be hopping—you know—”
“Oh, don’t you worry about Young Har; ‘e won’t bother us to-night; ‘e’s off Long Island way to try his newest ‘igh-power racing car—’e’s driving in the Vanderbilt Cup Race next month. To-night ‘e expects to do eighty miles or so, and ‘opes to sleep at one of ‘is clubs. I say ‘e ‘opes an’ expects so to do!”
“Yes,” nodded Mr. Stevens, “certainly, but what do you mean?”
“Sir,” sighed Mr. Brimberly, “if you’d been forced by stern dooty to sit be’ind Young Har in a fast automobile as I ‘ave, you’d know what I mean. Reckless? Speed? Well, there!” and Mr. Brimberly lifted hands and eyes and shook his head until his whiskers vibrated with horror.
“Then you’re pretty sure,” said Mr. Stevens, settling luxurious boots upon a cushioned chair, “you’re pretty sure he won’t come bobbing up when least expected?”
“Pretty sure!” nodded Mr. Brimberly. “You see, this nooest car is the very latest thing in racing cars—cost a fortune, consequently it’s bound to break down—these here expensive cars always do, believe me!”
“Why, then,” said Mr. Stevens, helping himself to one of Mr. Brimberly’s master’s cigars, “I say let joy and ‘armony be unconfined! How about Jenkins and ‘is banjer?”
“I’ll call ‘im up immediate!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, rising. “Mr. Jenkins is a true hartist, equally facetious and soulful, sir!”
So saying, Mr. Brimberly arose and crossed toward the telephone. But scarcely had he taken three steps when he paused suddenly and stood rigid and motionless, his staring gaze fixed upon the nearest window; for from the shadowy world beyond came a sound, faint as yet and far away, but a sound there was no mistaking—the dismal tooting of an automobile horn.
“‘Eavens an’ earth!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, and crossing to the window he peered out. Once again the horn was heard, but very much nearer now, and louder, whereupon Mr. Brimberly turned, almost hastily, and his visitor rose hurriedly.
“It’s very annoying, Mr. Stevens,” said he, “but can I trouble you to—to step—er—down—stairs—_with_ the glasses? It’s ‘ighly mortifying, but may I ask you to—er—step a little lively, Mr. Stevens?”
Without a word, Mr. Stevens caught up the tray from the piano and glided away on his toe-points; whereupon Mr. Brimberly (being alone) became astonishingly agile and nimble all at once, diving down to straighten a rug here and there, rearranging chairs and tables; he even opened the window and hurled two half-smoked cigars far out into the night; and his eye was as calm, his brow as placid, his cheek as rosy as ever, only his whiskers—those snowy, telltale whiskers, quivered spasmodically, very much as though endeavouring to do the manifestly impossible and flutter away with Mr. Brimberly altogether; yes, it was all in his whiskers.