My Friend the Chauffeur | Page 7

swamped.
I looked at Terry, he looked at me, as we rose like mechanical figures
to indicate our hosthood to the new arrivals.
They were Americans; I could tell by their chins. They had no
complexions and no particular age; they wore blue tissue veils, and
little jingling bags on their belts, which showed that they were not
married, because if they had been, their husbands would have ordered
the little jingling bags into limbo, wherever that may be.
"Good-afternoon," said the leading Blue Veil. "I am Miss Carrie Hood

Woodall, the lady lawyer from Hoboken, who had such a nice little
paragraph in The Riviera Sun, close to your advertisement; and this is
my chaperone, Mrs. Elizabeth Boat Cully. We're touring Europe, and
we want to take a trip with you in your automobile, if--"
"Unfortunately, ladies," said I, "the services of--er--my car are already
engaged to Mrs. Kidder, of Colorado, and her party. Isn't it so,
Barrymore?"
"Yes," replied Terry stoutly. And that "yes" even if inadvertent, was
equivalent I considered, to sign and seal.
Mrs. Kidder beamed like an understudy for The Riviera Sun. Beechy
twinkled demurely, and tossed her plaits over her shoulder. Even Miss
Destrey, the white goddess, deigned to smile, straight at Terry and no
other.
At this moment Félicité appeared with a tray. Whipped cream frothed
over the brow of a brown jug like a white wig on the forehead of a
judge; lettuce showed pale green through filmy sandwiches; small
round cakes were piled, crisp and appetizing, on a cracked Sèvres dish;
early strawberries glowed red among their own leaves. Talk of the
marengo trick! It was nothing to this. The miracle had been duly
performed; but--there were only five cups.
Mrs. Fox-Porston and her daughters, Miss Carrie Hood Woodall and
her chaperone, took the hint and their leave; and the companions of the
future were left alone together to talk over their plans.
"Lock the gate, Félicité," said I. "Do make haste!" And she did. Dear
Félicité!

II
A CHAPTER OF PLANS
So it is that Fate calmly arranges our lives in spite of us. Although no

details of the coming trip were settled during what remained of our new
employers' visit, that was their fault and the fault of a singularly
premature sunset, rather than mine, or even Terry's; and we both felt
that it came to the same thing. We were in honour bound to "personally
conduct" Mrs. Kidder, Miss Beechy Kidder, and Miss Destrey towards
whatever point of the compass a guiding finger of theirs should signify.
It has always been my motto to take Father Time by the fore-lock, for
fear he should cut it off, or get away, or play some other trick upon me,
which the cantankerous old chap (no parent of mine!) is fond of doing.
Therefore, if I could, I would have had terms, destination, day and hour
of starting definitely arranged before that miraculously-produced tea of
Félicité's had turned to tannin. But man may not walk through a solid
wall, or strive against such conversational gifts as those of Mrs. Kidder.
She could and would keep to anything except the point. That, whatever
its nature, she avoided as she would an indelicacy.
"Well, now, Mrs. Kidder," I began, "if you really want us to organize
this tour, don't you think we'd better discuss--"
"Of course we want you to!" she broke in. "We all think it's just
awfully good of you to bother with us when you must have so many
friends who want you to take them--English people in your own set. By
the way, do you know the Duchess of Carborough?"
"I know very few duchesses or other Americans," I replied. Whereupon
Miss Kidder's imp laughed, though her mother remained grave, and
even looked mildly disappointed.
"That's a funny way of putting it," said Beechy. "One would think it
was quite an American habit, being a Duchess."
"So it is, isn't it?" I asked. "The only reason we needn't fear its growing
like the Yellow Peril is because there aren't enough dukes. I've always
thought the American nation the most favoured in the world. Aren't all
your girls brought up to expect to be duchesses, and your men
presidents?"

"I wasn't," snapped Beechy. "If there was a duke anywhere around,
Mamma would take him, if she had to snatch him out of my mouth.
What are English girls brought up to expect?"
"Hope for, not expect," I corrected her. "Any leavings there are in the
way of marquesses or earls; or if none, a mere bishop or a C. B."
"What's a C. B.?" asked Mrs. Kidder anxiously.
"A Companion of the Bath."
"My goodness! Whose bath?"
"The Bath of Royalty. We say it with a capital B."
"My! How awkward for