CHAPTER MII




OF HOW SIR ROGER BLOXAM MET MR. HANK FARRIS.





   How? Why, how should they meet, Clorinda? It was at lunch at Romano's, let me tell you that, in the grand days of their hors d'oeuvre, and when the cheese was ``le Fromage de M. Fromage.'' There was a pretty decent Moselle, too, -- oh well, 'tis in vain to repine! Et puis, les filles! Merde pour New York! No matter. You shall have a new automobile, Sadie, if you can tell me why Hank Farris, on seeing Sir Roger, was reminded of a night long ago when he had been driving with the Empress Euge'nie, poor dear fat old thing! and found himself in the Marlborough Club with nothing to do, when who should stroll up Pall Mall but dear old Willie Gladstone; ``Frank, dear old top,'' cried the Premier, ``let's wander up to Bond Street, and look for a bit of fluff!'' ``Charmed, dear man!'' I murmered, and off we went -- and ran right into Tom Carlyle. ``Ouch, ye sculduddery rapscallions!'' cried Carlyle, ``a braw day the day! D'ye no ken I'll gang whiles we`ye!'' This was the very devil; Willie couldn't possibly do any business with that peevish old fool on his arm. But as luck would have it, we found the Prince of Wales at the corner of Park Place, groping in the gutter for a shilling he had dropped, and there was Lily in the hansom screaming, and the cabman swearing that his fare was half-a-crown. ``Kommen Sie nur!'' I cried in German ``Ned, Liebchen, wie geht's?'' (The Prince spoke hardly any English, you know.) ``Donner und Blitzen,'' ye yelled, ``der verfluchte Schweinkopf!'' and went on to curse the cabby in thick gutteral broken English. I tossed the man a sovereign --  jthe thing was becoming scandalous -- Lily jumped out of the cab, and in her hysteria threw her arms around Willie's neck. ``Take her home,'' I whispered, ``It's the only way out.'' For already a little crowd had collected, and any one of us might have been recognised at any moment! So poor dear Gladdie had to take on the Langtry -- he was never his own man again, through Hutch did his best, dear old Jonathan, what a man he was! As for Ned, he took Tom down to Marlborough House, of course, I packed them off, and damned glad I was to get out of it so easily. Poor old Tom! I met him again a year later at Lady Devonshire's. ``Been back to Ned's, Tom?'' I cried laughingly. He frowned at me. ``Na,'' says he, ``na! once a philosopher -- twice a pile-driver!'' I don't know what the devil he meant. So I fired off Pokilothron' Athanat' Aphrodite at him on the chance of a hit, and he went off growling to talk to Bobbie Salisbury, just as Alf Tennyson came up, and pulled out the Manuscript of In Memoriam, and asked me to put it right for him. ``In Memoriam,'' I cried, ``In Victoriam, you mean!'' digging his ribs, ``through as a matter of fact I don't believe he ever had the old girl!''


   The effect of this sparkling anecdote was great upon Sir Roger Bloxam. I'll tell you about it some other time when I'm not so lazy, unless I forget, as I shall, for yours sakes, try to do.


   On with the revel!