‘Indeed?’ Sir Montagu’s eyebrows seemed to indicate that he found this surprising. ‘Well, that is very delightful, to be sure. But I fancy the curtain is about to go up on the second act. I must not be lingering here.’
‘Join us at the Piazza for supper, Monty!’ Sherry suggested.
Sir Montagu thanked him, but was obliged to excuse himself, since he was engaged with some friends. He bowed once more over Hero’s hand, promised himself the pleasure of waiting upon her formally at no very distant date, and took his leave. He had no sooner left the box than Ferdy was moved to express himself unequivocally. ‘Shouldn’t have invited him,’ he said. ‘He’s a Bad Man.’
Hero turned a wide, questioning gaze upon him. Sherry said: ‘Oh, fiddle! Nothing amiss with Monty! You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ferdy!’
‘Bit of a commoner,’ said Mr Ringwood dispassionately. ‘Always thought so.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Thinks he’s at home to a peg,’ said Mr Fakenham. ‘Well, he ain’t. What’s more, I don’t like him. Gil don’t like him either.’
‘Well, he can be devilish good company,’ retorted the Viscount.
‘He don’t keep devilish good company,’ Mr Ringwood said stolidly.
‘Good God, you may meet him everywhere!’ exclaimed Sherry.
‘Point is, we don’t want to meet him everywhere,’ said Ferdy. ‘You know what Duke says?’
‘Your brother Marmaduke is a bigger fool than you are,’ responded the Viscount.
‘No, dash it, Sherry!’ expostulated Mr Ringwood. ‘That’s coming it a trifle too strong! Nothing the matter with Duke! Very knowing fellow!’
‘He says,’ pursued Ferdy inexorably, ‘that Monty’s an ivory-turner. I don’t say he’s right, but that’s what he says.’
As this pronouncement could only be understood to mean that the Honourable Marmaduke Fakenham considered Sir Montagu to be employed in decoying hapless innocents into gaming-hells, it was not surprising that the Viscount should flush hotly, and refute such a slander with more vehemence than civility. Mr Ringwood, seeing how anxiously Hero’s puzzled eyes travelled from Ferdy’s face to Sherry’s, trod heavily upon Ferdy’s foot, and refrained, with considerable self-restraint, from reminding Sherry that his own initiation into the disastrously deep play obtaining at such discreet establishments as Warkworth’s and Wooler’s had been made under the auspices of Sir Montagu. Luckily, the curtain rose just then on the second act, and although Ferdy and Sherry were both perfectly prepared to continue their acrimonious discussion, they were obliged, on account of the representations made to them by persons in the neighbouring boxes, to postpone it until the play had run its course. By that time they had naturally forgotten all about it; and as no further rift had occurred to mar the harmony of the evening the whole party went off happily to eat supper at the Piazza, Hero being conveyed there in a sedan chair and the three gentlemen walking along beside it.
This circumstance put Mr Ringwood in mind of something which he had been meaning to say to Sherry all day; and as soonas the supper had been chosen, and the wine broached, he fixed him with a serious gaze, and said: ‘Been thinking, Sherry. Carriage for Lady Sherry. Can’t keep driving her about in hacks. Not the thing.’
‘No, not the thing at all,’ Sherry agreed. ‘I’m glad you put me in mind of that. Come to think of it, we ought to decide just what she’ll need.’
‘Must have a carriage,’ Mr Ringwood said. ‘Landaulet.’
Mr Fakenham, who had been narrowly inspecting a dish of curried crab through his quizzing-glass, looked up at this, and said positively: ‘Barouche. All the crack nowadays! Can’t have Sherry’s wife driving about town in a landaulet like a dowd.’
‘Oh no!’ agreed Hero. ‘I am going to be all the crack. I have quite made up my mind about that. Sherry said I might cut a dash, and I think I should like to very much.’
‘Spoken like a right one!’ grinned Sherry. ‘Of course she can’t have a landaulet! Dash it, that’s what my mother uses! A barouche, with a pair of match-bays: slap up to the echo!’
‘Best look in at Tatt’s to-morrow,’ nodded Ferdy. ‘Nothing in your stables fit for a lady, dear boy.’
Mr Ringwood, who had produced a visiting-card from his pocket, made a note on it. ‘Tatt’s,’ he said. ‘Coachman and footman. Page-boy. Abigail.’
‘Chilham is attending to that,’ said the Viscount. ‘Says he knows just such a one as will suit.’
‘Riding horse,’ said Ferdy.
‘She don’t ride.’
‘Yes, I do!’ Hero interrupted. ‘At least, I have often ridden the old pony, and you know you put me up on your hunter when I was only twelve, Sherry!’
‘Well, you aren’t going to sit there saying you rode him, are you?’ demanded Sherry. ‘Never saw a horse get rid of anyone faster in my life!’
‘You shouldn’t have put her up on one of your wild horses, Sherry,’ said Mr Ringwood disapprovingly. He made another note on his card. ‘She’d best have a nice little mare. Mare. Lady’s saddle.’
‘Yes, and a riding-habit,’ said Hero. ‘And also I should like to have a carriage like that one we saw this morning, Gil, and drive it myself.’
