Bill's Happy Thought

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIX, Issue XIX, 8 November 1902, Page 1157

Bill's Happy Thought

It began in jest, but ended as jests n < <iuently do, in sober earnest. And ;• was entirely Bill’s thought, even he admits that. H was the week before Easter, i..,,, on was hot and stuffy, and I i-ked Bill where we should go to pond that season. “We can go to my people, you know," 1 said, “though ■lure’s nothing going on at home, and dad has the gout”—something like a muttered “Heaven preserve us" from my husband —“or the Gor dons have asked us there, though i bate the river, or we might run over to Paris, though there is Pippin, of course.” I looked doubtfully at our son and heir, sitting on his father’s knee. Bill tossed Pippin sky-high before replying. “Not much catch, any of those, he observed, candidly, “I’ve got an idea. Itettine, let’s spend Easter Monday with the trippers.” It was certainly a hot spring. Could the weather have affected my husband’s brain? “1 mean it,” went on Bill, depositing Pippin on the hearth-rug. where he promptly yelled to be restored to his former high place. “It would be splendid, you and me, ’Arry and Arriet. having a ‘day-out’ somewhere, and think. Bettine, what material for ’copy.’” Pippin yelled on lustily, but 1 began to understand things a little. "Oh, send the kid upstairs,” expostulated Bill, as Pippin, finding himself unusually neglected, howled on healthily, “and then we can talk things over.” Peace having entered by the door by which Pippin, only half pacified, had been borne out. I lay back in an arm-chair and waited. Bill lit a cigarette, and stretched his long legs in an opposite chair. “Look here.” he said, emphatically. "We’re both tired of rotten country-

house visits?” I admitted the truth of this. "And sick of London?” "Yes”—heartily. "And would be bored with Paris?” "Er—perhaps. Anyhow. there’s Pippin.” "Well, then listen. I propose that you and I spend Easter Monday somewhere just out of London. Old clothes, do as you like, and mix with ihe trippers. Tt would be novel and entertaining, and then there’s another reason.” I waited in silence. A ring of smoke in the air. and my husband went on persuasively. "I could do no end of a good article for the ‘Up-to-Data’ with the ■copy’ I should get. ‘Easter Ecstasies: A Cockney Idyll’!” By • love. Bettine, we’ll do it.” I began to waver. If it were a question of Literature, with a capital L. it made all the difference. I was not a little proud of my husband’s literary position, as “the. smart young editor of that smart little paper the •I’p-to-Data’ ” (vide daily papers and press notices), and his short stories under the heading of “Society Snapshots,” are beginning to be much commented on and favourably reviewed.

Some four years ago. when I married “Harum-Scarum Bill." the polite designation of the Honourable William Fetherbreyne in London society. I was the victim of many condolences. “An extremely clever young man, but no application, my dear.

"Brains, yes, all the Fetherbreynes have that, but as wild as you like, and some were kind enough to add we should make a good pair. But Bill was disappointing all expectations, and was rapidly making a name for himself in the world of letters. Was I to be the one to put a stumbling-block in his way, and hinder the obtaining of the necessary “copy?” Also the idea amused

me not a little. The only thing I bargained for was strict secrecy. What capital would not the rival papers make out of it. I could already imagine the paragraphs. "The Honourable William and Lady Elizabeth Fetherbreyne spent Easter Monday at Hampton Court. They were last seen in the maze, wearing each others’ hats,” etc., etc. No, no one should know of our plan. “I tell you where we’ll go,” exclaimed Bill, rising to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, “we’ll go to Edensbury, Bet tine.” “To Edensbury?” I stared at him. “Oh. Bill, if we met Colonel Agnew.” My husband laughed, and came and sat himself on the arm of my chair. “Look here, Bettine,” he said, “because that old idiot of a godfather of mine ehose to quarrel with me about you, my dear, he may go to —” Bill snapped his fingers in the air derisively—“for all I care. Edensbury is big enough to keep out of his way. even if he does own half of it. Besides, he’d never recognise us in bank holiday attire. He’s as blind as a bat.”

“But why Edensbury?” I objected. Colonel Agnew as a childless bachelor, ami Bill’s godfather, had led the latter to expect not a little from him. And then, because Bill wouldn’t marry an heiress selected by his godfather—an American lady with a surprising fortune in piekies to cover her want of beauty—the poor boy

was forbidden Edensbury Hall, and the colonel made a will leaving his very comfortable little fortune to indigent pickle-dealers. Neither Bill nor I cared for this. We had enough to “worry along with.” as he put it, especially since the brilliant career of the “I’p-to-Data” had commenced. but the quarrel wifti his godfather worried him not a little, and the Colonel remained obdurate. And now. was it wise to go to Edensbury? “You see my Elizabeth,” went on Bill very coaxingly, still sitting on the arm of my chair. “I don’t want to go far out of town. It’s the London tripper I want to study. Edensbury is so handy, and we inns* be home before the servants get in.” To this there could be but one answer. So to Edensbury we would go. Easter Monday dawned gloriously tine; one of those early hot days that take you by surprise, and are all the more delicious for being so unexpected. I came down to breakfast feeling something like a conspirator. There was a sort of absurdly guilty feeling in the air. I fancied Bromson. our very sedate and respectable butler, looked reprovingly at us. But he often did this, having known Bill from childhood, and the whole family of Fetherbreyne from time immemorial. But now. how could he know his master and mistress were off to Edensbury to spend the day with the trippers? Impossible. Still his eye was i eproving, and he placed the toast on the table with an air that suggested that had circumstances permitted, he would have offered us some good advice. We had given him in common with the rest of the household (with the exception of nurse and cook—two necessary adjuncts to Pippin's happiness and well-being) a day's holiday from 10 a.m. until lo p.m. We meant to catch the 10.5,0 train from Liverpool-street, when they had safely departed, and be

home again l>efore they returned. I had thought it* wise to remark in the presence of the servants at dinner the night before, that my husband and myself were going to spend the day at Richmond with my Aunt Marian! Richmond. we thought, sounded a nappy, harmless sort of place, and 1 certainly hud a relathe (here - a distant cousin who approved of neither Bill nor myself, and who certainly would have accorded us no warm welcome if we had arrived that day. “Now go and dress.” said Bill, when Bronison had left the room and breakfast was over. 1 looked at the clock. Nine-thirty. I'he servants were hurrying us to get out early themselves. “It’s too early.” I objected. “we needn't go from here till ten. Bill.” He looked at me critically. “But you're not going in that get-up.” A long glass at the end of the room showed me a pink batiste shirt and a neat black skirt. I had considered them very suitable to the intended day's amusement. “Don't I look nice. Bill?” | inquired, injured and innoBill laughed his gay. infectious laugh and dropped a kiss on mv fore head. ‘‘You look too beastly nice.” he said, cheerfully, “and that's what it is. 'Arriets don't look that, my lady, (io and put on something awful.” I had not bargained for this, but I meekly obeyed, and went up-stairs %<> see what I could find. Pippin met me on tly* landing. I kissed him and listened to Nurse's remarks on the advisability of “getting out early, before (hem horrid trippers are about. my lady.” I •gravely assented, told her I should be at Richmond until late that evening; and saw them sent off to spend a peaceful morning in the Square gardens opposite. Then 1 selected a light covert coat and a white sailor hat with a neat black band. I put these on and looked at myself critically. Did I in the least suggest the Bank Holiday’ person? I feared not. A happy thought presented itself. 1 hastily fetched my “make-up” box, sacred to the frequent amateur theatricals in which both my husband and myself were justly famous, and with a touch of rouge to my cheeks, which are usually of the regulation London pallor, and an added blackness to my eyebrows. 1 stood transformed. And then I almost blush to record it—then I pinned into my sailor hat a bunch of pink roses. A trimmed sailor! Oh, Elizabeth, how are the mighty fallen. A thick white veil completed my toilet, and under its friendly covering 1 felt safer. I watched from my window tin* progress of Nurse and Pippin, gardenwards. She, comfortable ami burly, •i large white figure suggesting. in the distance, a colossal cottage-loaf; Baby, equally comfortable and plump on a smaller scale. Next started the housemaid, kitchenmaid, and footman. a happy’ trio, in costumes more wonderful than strictly artistic. Why did not Bromson start? I dared not go down like this until I was certain of not meeting him. 1 fidgeted about the room, thought how very unlike a lady 1 looked, and wondered what my own people would have said if they had seen mo. They might have been amused more probably they would have been shocked. But 1 did not intend them to hear of this. A whistle from below, and. “Are you ready?” in my husband's tones. I took a red parasol, which, as either a match or a contrast to the pink roses was a distinct failure, and went nervously < I own stairs. “Come here,” said Bill's voice from Lis dressing-room. I went in. Was this my husband my fair. cleanshaven Bill, who is accounted one of the best-looking men in London? I saw a man with a fierce black moustache* and black eyebrows; only the laughing eyes bore any resemblance to my Bill. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Capital,” roared Bill. “That’s the use of amateur theatricals, you see. Ailmire my moustache. Bettine. Last time I wore it I was a marquis. You look ,splendid. old girl.” “I don't feel it then; nnd vmi look

a great deal more like a chef than a marquis, my dear Bill. Are you aware that I’ve got ou a trimmed sailor?” "Well,” remarked ignorant Bill, “it looks very jolly.” 1 merely remarked that some men were very stupid, whereupon Bill kissed me, or rather “my white veil and pink cheeks,” as he rightly expressed it, and suggested we should start. My courage began to fail a little. "Are you quite sure Bromson has gone?” I said weakly. He had departed ten minutes ago, glorious in a tweed suit and straw hat. Bill had seen him. "And cook?” Oh, she was busy, of course, getting the nursery dinner.

I doubted the statement, but Bill was getting impatient. With beating hearts—one at least I can answer for; my husband with that moustache must have felt nervous — we stole like thieves down our own front stairs and let ourselves softly out of our own front door. We had started. 11. A hansom stood opposite. I half raised my parasol to hail it when Bill caught my arm. “Bank Holiday persons, my dear Bet tine,” he observed gravely, “go by omnibus.” I hate 'buses, ami told Bill he wanted to be too realistic, but. man-like, he insisted, and carried his point. We turned our steps towards the end of the Square. A man and a woman were coming towards us. I recognised them, and my heart began ,o beat, wildly. "Bill,” I gasped, “we mc.st go back. Here come the Warringtor.s.” My husband only smiled serenely under that dreadful moustache. "Don't be a fool, darling,” he observed. pleasantly. “We can hardly go back and turn in nt No. 55 now. Of course they won’t recognise us.”

1 absolutely trembled as they approached. Was not Mrs Willy Warrington known to be the greatest gossip in London? By lunch time our adventure would be in everyone’s mouth. "Oh, Bill, Bill, what a mad idea yours was!” But nothing happened. The Warringtons glanced at us with but lukewarm interest. The only spot on which Mrs Willy’s all-seeing eyes appeared to rest was Bill’s tie, a fearful creation of red and yellow, which he had cheerfully announced to be “just the thing.” “Trippers,” remarked Mr Warrington, casually, apparently imagining we were deaf. The square was nearly empty, and their words came distinctly back to us. Mrs Willy sum-

med us up in two words: “Awful creature: I” I heard her plainly. Bill fairly chuckled as we went on. “Capital,” he said. “Don’t you feel happier now, Elizabeth?” I felt angry, and yet relieved. Impertinent woman! But yet, if we had escaped detection from those eagle eyes, we were probably safe. My spirits rose. We went on the top of a ’bus, and started for Liverpoolstreet. Bill got into conversation with a gay and festive young man. with an even more pronounced taste in ties than Bill’s own. This person informed us he was going to “Hendensbury.” Where might we be going? To the same place? That was curious now! It was a rare old place, and plenty to do. We inquired as to the nature of its enjoyments. They embraced such attractions as donkeys, cocoa-nut shies bicycle races, dancing on the green, and a “gent’s ’ouse and grounds thrown open to the publie.” We grew interested, and inquired the name of the trippers’ benefactor. The gentleman of the tie did not know. It occurred to us that very possibly it was Colonel Agnew. Half an hour in a third-class carriage, wherein both atmosphere and

accommodation left much to be desired, brought us to Edensbury. Here we managed to shake off our persistently affectionate fellow-traveller. He appeared unsnubable and permanently adhesive. But the cocoa-nut shies proved so strong an attraction that he presently tore himself from our side, expressing great astonishment at our refusal to participate in the pleasure. “Not shy!” he said, quite pathetically. “Not ’ave a shy on Bank Holiday?” To calm his mind we assured him of our intention to “shy” later on in the day, and begged him not to delay his performance on our account. So, with a “see you later, then,” this en-

gaging person left us. -’Bill was delighted with him; but I was beginning to get hungry, and asked where we were going to lunch. We looked round. The place fairly swarmed with people, young and old. great and small. : Bicycles, tricycles, donkey-carts,- perambulators and all .seem.ed to be mixed up indescribably. Everyone was noisily happy. From within the hotels and public-houses came sounds of singing, mingled with the notes of banjoes and concertinas. Into any place of this sort I absolutely declined to go. Bill agreed with me. “I know,” he exclaimed, after a moment’s consideration. “There’s a very decent sort of little inn up by

Edensbury Hall. It’s kept by an old servant of the colonel’s. We'll g o there.” We turned in that direction, and walked about half a mile along ;1 dusty road, where there were d.cidedly less people and traffic. Pi sently a high wall shut off all vie.\ on one side of the road. 1 wonder. I what lay behind it. Bill smiled. "Edensbury Hall, u dear,” he remarked, "the proper: ■. of Colonel Agnew, who By Jo: this gate’s new.” The wall had come to an abrupt termination. A large white gam stood open; within could be seen i delightful green park, where all sorts and conditions of men, women ar: 1 children appeared to be enjoyit: - themselves. This was, evidently, "tl gent’s ’ouse thrown open to the pub lie.” Also, equally evidently, it wa, Edensbury Hall. Bill insisted we must go inside anl look round. 1 confessed to som curiosity about a place of which I had often heard but never seen. An I in we went. It was a beautiful pari., with some grand old trees. On a piece of artificial water happy little tripper-boys were sailing little boat I drew a deep breath. In spite of the all-prevailing personality of th, bank holiday person 1 felt there warnore breathing space here, an, I there was certainly an air of quiet ness within that was decidedly wan: ing without the gates. We made our way to an empty seat under a large oak. “How nice,” I said, happily. Bill murmured something about being “beastly hungry.” but for the present contented himself with liglw ing a huge pipe, which appeared quite in keeping with his tie an l moustache.

But fate was arranging a pleasam little surprise for us. As 1 idly an l happily watched my fellow-trippers my heart suddenly stood still. It had thumped at the sight of Mrs. Willy Warrington, now it seemed to me to stop beating altogether. “Bill,” 1 gasped, feebly. He looked where 1 was looking, ami saw what I saw. Only a spruce-looking, emi nently respectable man with a straw hat, and an enormous button hole. Only this. But the button hole was worn by Bromson. our but ler, and he was bearing down upon us. Bill grasped the danger of the situation at once. I suppose literature quickens the brain. Certainly he was about to prove himself a most inventive genius. “If he speaks to us, remember, Bet tine, we’re foreigners. French chef and his wife, that’ll do. Jean and Marie. For heaven’s sake don’t call me Bill. Leave the talking to me.” All this in a hurried undertone while we looked, with bland unconscious ness, in another direction. How I prayed Bromson would pass on. But he did not. He sat down heavily at the other end of the seat and mopped his face with a handkerchief whose design and colouring were hardly t> be called artistic. He glanced at us with the casual friendly air I had no ticed a good deal that morning There is a “Hail-fellow-well-met ness” about the British tripper that is very engaging. I saw at once that he was conversa tionally inclined, and we both saw also (and this gave us courage) that our worthy: butler had no idea that we were other than we seemed to be

He opened the conversation by re marking, with much truth, but some want of originality, that it was hot I glanced at Bill tremblingly. “Oui, il fait chaud. pardon, ’ot.” re marked my husband. pleasantly, with a bland smile.

Bromson was apparently a trifle embarrassed at being addressed in a strange tongue. T stole a look al him. He had set his hat furthei

back ou his head, aud again displayed the alarming handkerchief. "Yes, it is hot," he remarked again. "Fine place this, sir,” with a condescending wave of the hand. "A foreigner, 1 take it?” looking at Bill with a sort of pitying curiosity. 1 believe Bill was really enjoying himself now that he felt perfectly safe. He fired off a long sentence, in French, to the effect that he was a French chef taking a holiday, that 1 was his wife and. could speak very little English, and a good deal more that was —as he well knew—perfect Greek to our bewildered butler. Broinson spoke with the stiffness of one who labours under a disadvantage. "I'm afraid I don’t understand, he said. ‘'l’m Henglish"—great emphasis here —“and don’t speak no languages.” The contempt in his tone was but thinly veiled. Bill was all apologies.

“Mille pardons!” he exclaimed, with gesticulations that would have done credit to any Frenchman, "a thousand pardons, cher monsieur, 1 dto speak the Knlgleesh ver’ little; my wife she speak it ver’ much littler.” He waved an airy hand towards me. andl Bromson favoured me with a graceful bow. = “I am French chef, vot you call cook,” went on Bill, very glibly, "my name is Le Brum I make ze cooking for iMilord Sir Smith, in London." And now by his tones 1 knew Bill was enjoying all this. Broinson was now all affability and full of information. Unsolicited and very personal information appears to be part of every Bank Holiday programme. He gave us a very brief resume of his present life. He "lived with” the Honourable William ami Lady Elizabeth Fetherbreyne at 55. Square. Mr Fetherbreyne was a gentleman of high rank and position in society, and “wrote for the papers.” On this point was great stress laid. A very clever gentleman, an I her ladyship was a beautiful young lady (I don't think it is possible to blush through rouge. Bill gave me a surreptitious kick), ami Mastei I ippin, “their son and heir” —Bromson referred to my darling Laby with an emphasised “H”- —‘was a very' line ami clever child. It was a gay and festive house Bromson went on to inform us. The master and mistress, "lieinlg' young,” were fond of "larks. Illis with a confidential smile. He went on to enquire as to Bill's experiences. What sort of place was his? with a genial smile. 1 feel now that never before had 1 done justice to my husband’s powers of '.magination. 1 could only sit aud hold my breath while he “his tale unfolded.” In broken English, sprinkled with French phrases —Bill was a fluent linguist—he informed Bromson again that he was a chef in the house of Mi.ord Sir Smith (he professed himself unable to be mure explicit in the matter of correct titles. “Zese I'lngleesh names!” with another shrug), the gayest, fastest, and most extravagant house in l.ondion. Of the dinners he had sent up, and the company he had—ind.reetly—entertained, there was no end. Duchesses, countesses, and earls were daily visitors. Koyalty dropped in to afternoon tea. His Serene Highness the Prince ol something or other—Bill’s fancy titles have escaped my memory—had begged Le Brun to go back to his cast! • in Germany and cook for him. But M. Le Brun preferred the household of Milord’ Sir Smith. Broinson listened in growing wonder and respect. The French cook appeared to be a person of importance. “It must be what ytou’d call a peculiar ’ouse.” he

observed, thoughtfully, evidently not a little impressed by the grandeur of the whole menage. 'Billl had not hesitated, in his “kitchen in the air.' to place himself at the head of a retinue of kitchenmaids and underlings that would have satisfied the requirements of a palace. Bill gave a twist to his moustache.

"Ch, it eeis SO peculiar.” he replied "oh. ver' much peculiar.” “And where did you say the residence of Sir Smith is?” enquired Hcromson. He had in view perhaps a series of Sunday visits. What would or could Bill say now? Bromson, in all probability, was as I'amliliatr with the Bed Book as we ourselves.

“No. 135, Gardens,” was the easy and ready reply. I breathed again, for I knew, though apparently our butler did not. that the numbers there ended at 134. Bromson drew out a leather pocket-book that might justly have claimed near relationship with a small Gladstone bag, and wrote down the address with care. He then remarked that he hoped he might be allowed to call some Sunday; also he hoped Monsieur (pronounced strictly as spelt) would honour him by a visit to Square. Would Monsieur remember the name. Aes; M. Le Brun thought if highly probable he would. Bromson beamed on us both.

Matters were at this happy stage when an elderly gentleman walked to ward’s us. a dapper litte man in a light suit. The unmistakable stamp <>f the Service was upon him. He wore a decided air of proprietorship, and advanced with a. ‘benevolent, if c ondescending smile. For the first time Bill fidgeted uneasily. Did I hear a muttered Damn!” or was it a suspicious cough only? The benevolent smile and its owner stopped in front of us. “Good morning,” said the latter. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves here?” Bromson evidently conceived it his duty as an Englishman and not a foreigner to take the burden of responding upon his own shoulders. “Thank you,” he beamed affably upon the world at large. “We h'are.” The old gentleman appeared grati tied. “That’s right,” he said heartily, “when I throw my grounds open to the public. I like to see the publie appreciate them.” and more in the same strain to which I did not listen. His first words revealed the stranger’s identity. Colonel Agnew stood before us. What would Bill do now? Now I understood the suspicious cough. Poor Bill! He told me afterwards that never had he felt in such a hole. To resume his natural man ner, and explain at once who we were, was his first thought But with Bromson sitting by, how could he? Bromson had been in the Fetherbreyne service for many years, but even this hardly entitled him to be taken into our confidence and told the whole story of the “idea” and its reason for “copy.” “How could . 1 ever expect him to wait at table with anything like dignity,” moaned Bill to me afterwards, “when he wan'd always be thinking of M. Le Brun and the peculiar establishment of Milord Sir Smith?” Then, too. even the best of servants will talk, and our harmless little tale would be all over London. On the other hand, to sit still and keep up our fictitious characters meant renunciation to any hopes of reconciliation with the Colonel. Bill knew too well the irascible little man would not be amused but annoyed at the deception. But need he ever know? At any rate, there was no help for it now. With Bromson sitting by, all affability and explanations. M. Le Brun and his wife must remain as they were. Colonel Agnew was talking busily and fussily-. “If you are in want of refreshments you will find them of good quality and moderate charges in the tent over there.” his cane indicated the direction in which a fluttering flag, seen indistinctly- between the trees, doubtless crowned a tent. Hungry? Of course we were; it was two o’clock. Bill in his assumed character bowed elaborately to his unconscious godfather. “Je vous remereie. monsieur,” he said gravely. “Allons. Marie.”

The Colonel stared a little. Bill had not spoken before. Bromson hastened to do the honours, while we stood helplessly by. In Bill's face I could see laughter struggling with annoyance.

Our officious butler waved an airyhand towards us. “Foreigners, sir.” aOmost Apologetically. “A French cook and his wife, and T take it, don’t talk much English.” Colonel Agnew looked at us sharply. Possibly he didn’t talk much French. “H’m, h’m, he said, apparently taking us in at a glance. “Well. I will show you the way to the tent myself.” And he did so, though we could w-ell have dispensed with his company. He asked many questions as we went along, appearing to take

an unusual interest in humanity. Bill replied in broken English and a good deal of French (unintelligible I am sure to his godfather) that he was a chef in London, but omitted the piquant details he had supplied to Bromson. Yes, he liked England and the English people “ver much.” Was he comfortable in his present situation? Yes, he thanked Monsieur, he was very happy. Yes, he had experienced an English Bank Holiday before, but “not quite like this.” added the truthful chef. The Colonel took this to be a tribute to the beauties of Edensbury Park, and “H’m-ed" again complacently, and finally left us with a condescending “Good day” at the door of the tent. “Thank goodness,” I mentally ejaculated. “Now to get rid of Bromson. Does he never mean to leave us again? How on earth shall we get home?” But not until he had lunched well, and at our expense, for Fill insisted on being host, did our worthy butler leave us. Then he expressed his intention of having a

stroll. Would we accompany him? No, we were ftatigued. Well, he should doubtless see us again. If not to-day, in London. At last, he was gone. “Thank Heaven!” ejaculated Bill, fervently. “Another five minutes and I should have strangled him.” We looked at each other and laughed, helplessly and hopelessly, until Bill told me the rouge on my cheeks was coming off in stripes. But when ever I thought of Bromson I laughed again. “It’s quite too funny,” I slaid. Bill remarked that it wasn't quite so funny to have taken in the Colonel. “ I don’t fancy he’d see the point of the joke,” he remarked, grimly. “Need he ever know?” I knew beforehand what Bill's answer would be. “It seems rather mean not to tell him. doesn’t it?” he said, absently. “It’s different taking in old Brom son.”

In spite of this sobering thought we spent a lazy, happy afternoon tinder the trees. Bill, rather unnecessarily, told me to make the most of it. “for it’s the last time we’ll ever get to Edensbury,” he said. So we dawdled about until nearly sixo’clock. Bill making notes for his article. and I. thoroughly lazy, doing nothing. Presently the advisability of getting home before Bromson occurred to us. We turned our steps gatewards. In the distance, ahead of us. could be seen Colonel Agnew, probably patronising other home-going holiday-makers.

A sudden thought suggested itself. “Bill,” I said, firmly, “let’s go at once and explain things to your godfather.” Bill looked doubtful, then agreed, then hesitated, and finally said, “Com • on,” very impatiently, and on we went. He was not exactly comforting as we hurried along. “It isn’t exactly the day I should have chosen to introduce you to the old buffer. Bettine.” Ihe remarked looking at me critically. It was an

unkind reminder, and I could have wept to think of my rouged cheeks and “trimmed sailor.” But of necessity I plucked up a little courage. “If it comes to that. Hill, you don’t look exactly a godson to be proud of.” It would not have taken much to begin a quarrel. Something mad- Colonel Agnew pause a moment. We caught him up. a little breathless. He nodded genially to us, and wished us “Good evening.” Bill raised his hat. (Have 1 men tioned it was a straw one. encircled by a band of many colours?) “Could I speak to you a moment?” he asked, speaking now in his natural tones. I alone knew how nervous he must be. Colonel Agnew stared, put on a pair of glasses, and stared again. He was less genial now. “Why,” he said, slowly, “you are surely the Frenchman who talked broken English?” Bill moved uneasily. “Yes,” he remarked. rather lamely, "I—er—was.” The Colonel began to get a little excited. “You were, and are not now. Come, sir, explain yourself,” he said, hotly. “You can speak English perfectly, I see. Who are you. pray?” Sarcasm and suspicion were in the tone. “Well,” said poor Bill, unhappily, “I am William Fetherbreyne.” The Colonel laughed unpleasantly and incredulously'. "And perhaps you are someone else, too?” More sarcasm. “Yes, sir, your godson.” But this was altogether too much for the Colonel s naturally hot temper. To be te d by an impertinent tripper -am what else could he consider B'll? —first that he is a chef, and they the Honourable. William Fetherbreyne and "your godson,” was a trifle too much for the Colonel’s credulity, particularly as the aforesaid tripper did not bear the slightest resemblance to the person he professed to be. Plainly. Colonel Agnew believed he was being trifled with. He came a step nearer Bill, and spoke warmly. And Bill looked so comically unhappy. He had twisted that awful moustache into two fierce little points, which stuck out aggressively. Certainly he made an excellent chef. “Now listen to me, my man. I see no reason for your pressing these absurd stories upon me. I suppose it is your idea of being funny”—scornfully —“I can only call it a poor joke. But I must request you and your companion to be so good as to leave these grounds at once. Come, sir, go.”

He pointed an angry cane in the direction of the gate, now only some few yards distant. People were beginning to look at us 1 a little curiously. I thought, for the Colonel’s voice had risen with excitement. 1 felt all at once tired and dispirited. “It’s no use,” I said to Bill. “We were foolish ever to have come here." I turned towards the Colonel. “It’s true.” I cried, as convincingly as I knew how. and I could not feel convincing in that absurd costume. “Quite true.

and one day you will know iU But 1 really don’t wonder you can't believe us.” We both bowed with as much dignity as we could muster, aud passed out of the gates of Edeusbury Park, leaving a perplexed old gentleman staring after us. Neither of us was in a happy frame of mind when we reached the station. It did not improve matters to find we had three-quarters of an hour to wait for a train to laverpoolstreet. Edeusbury Station was duii. and the Bank Holiday makers waiting with ourselves were aggressively cheerful, but we ceased to be :> in used by them. At last the train crawled in. With a disregard of appearances or the possible reappearance of Bromson, Hill took first-class tickets, and a kind providence gave us an empty carriage. We were Off. Bill, who had been gloomy since our abrupt dismissal, cheered up a little, and "thanked heaven" we should soon be home. 1 lay back luxuriously, thinking how comfortable a first-class carriage really is, and "thanked heaven” 1 was not always a trippier. ‘"Though it’s really been very amusing’, Bill, hasn't it?" I said; for he still seemed far from happy. Bill grunted. “Awfully amusing that little interview with the Colonel.”

Bill relented, and agreed that I was right, and then wondered what I ippin had been doing all day, ami whether we should iget a cab at Liverpool-street, and' various other "wonders,” that showed he had recovered his usual g-ood spirits. The train glided into the station. “Now for a hansom, quick." But the crowd was great and there was no possibility of hurrying. By slow degrees we got. outside the station to find no cabs at all, only; an overladen green omnibus Whose conductor informed us there “was room for two houtside." So rather unwilling ly. only driven on by the necessity ol getting home before the servants we went “houtside.” On the seat beside us sat the, affable Bromson.

AU smiles and pleasantness he informed us he had come up by the seven-thirty. So had we. He wondered he hadn’t seen us. Going home? Yes. So was he. Hill replied as shortly as possible, and by degrees his monosyllables and his Trench seemed to disconcert our butler, who relapsed into silence. It was a long ride, and the nearer He approached home the more nervous we both grew. Home? That, was No. 55, —— Square, where Brom son lived. We could hardly accompany him there. Should we find ourselves in an impossible No. 135, Gardens? Bromson himself unconsciously helped us by suggesting that we should get down at the next corner far — Gardens. “Ah, oui, ’ agreed Bill, darting a glance at me that said plainly, “Anywhere to be rid of him." The 'bus stopped. Les adieux might now be said.

“I think I’ll get down here too,’ remarked Bromson, getting up -heavily, “1 might walk a bit of the way back with you. It's a tine night. It was. We resigned ourselves to Fate anil <ur butler. We walked on towards Gardens in a silence only broken on one side by Bromsson’s comments on the beauty of the night, and on the other hand by Bill's muttered invectives—in safe French — against the unconscious man. 1 was occupied in wondering where we should find ourselves in the next five minutes —possibly ringing at some strange bad. d<mr bell. But the unexpected happened. It may have been the mutterings of the chef, or it may have been something else that caused llromsKm to pause at the top of —— Gardens ami bid us farewell. "I ’ope we shall meet before long," he remarked, and Bill with the perfect truth so seldom united to politeness, hoped the same. Our worthy butler’s back turned the corner. A crawling hansom was passing. Bill hailed it feverishly. “Fifty-five, Square, as hard as you can go,” he said to the driver. We started off at a smart pace. "We shall just be in before Bromston,” observed Bill. We were. Our latchkey admitted us; we crept guiltily in. It was nearly half-past nine, and) dark. There were no lights in the hall. Evidently the servants were not home yet. Upstairs we went, stealthily, softly, in my own room 1. felt safe. "I say, Bettine”—Bill’s face, fair and clean-shaven once more, appeared at the door—“ 1 think 1 heard I’.romslon come in. I’m going to ring and tell -him we want some supper." "Alt right.” But 1 felt a trifle ner vc.us of meeting Bromson just yet, and let Bill go downstairs alone. 1 heard him ring the drawing-room bell. I leant over the bannisters and listened.

“Get some coffee and sandwiches, ' said Bill, doming to the door. “Her ladyship is tired and, doesn’t want anything else. The trains from Richmond were so late.” “We shan’t want anything else, Bromson,” went on my husband, serenely. “You can go to your supper. 1 hope you had a pleasant day'!' with the kindly condescension of master to servant. Bromson’s tone was guarded. “A very henjoyable day, sir, thank you. ’ The next day Bill wrote a full and complete account of the day’s doings to Collonel Agnew, giving all details and explaining the motives of “copy.” To this the Colonel vouchsafed no direct answer. ( But not long- afterwards came an enormous box of chocolates addressed to “Master Philip Tetheiibreyne” (which, by the way. caused Pippin a severe bilious attack), the postmark thereon was Edensbury and Bill is -happier; and though “E-aister Ecstasies,” a smart little skit on the Batik Holiday Person, caused quite a sensation in the " I.lp-to-Data.” the true story lot the Easter Monday’s adventures has yet to be written. For there is Bromson to be considered—Bromson. who

is a faithful reader of Bill’s paper, and who never, as he expressed to me one day, “misses hanythink in it. my lady.” So, while our worthy butler is altove ground Bill says he lifelines to give ourselves away.