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He reflected that he hadn’t hesitated a moment that evening when, remembering Soveral’s suggestion of a gift, he had hit on the notion of presenting his spurs to Mrs Keppel. They were silver, in fact, and he had spent twenty minutes, between shaving and putting on his shirt, in polishing them fiercely in the kitchen. They had come from that small collection of personal belongings in his valise, because somehow he had felt that a present with the giver’s brand of ownership on it was better than anything bought – and he had been in no position to buy anything, anyway; Laker’s stores and the Castle Lancing dairy carrying only a limited supply of trinkets for the haut monde, as Thornhill remarked.
“Extraordinary things.” The King had lifted one of the spurs from the box, and was spinning its big rowel which tinkled musically as it moved. “Care to go hunting in those, Arlesdon?”
“Rather not, sir. Bit conspicuous, I fancy.” There were murmurs of agreement, and Colonel Dammit remarked that they were barbarous-lookin’ things; Peggy said:
“Aren’t they dreadfully cruel – to the horse, I mean?”
“Not as cruel as the ones you were wearing today,” said Mr Franklin. “Those big rowels are blunt; they won’t even dent a horse’s hide.”
“Well, I shall certainly wear them, and they will make beautiful knick-knacks of decoration,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling warmly at Mr Franklin. The King was watching him curiously.
“You’ve been in Mexico? What were you doing there?”
Mr Franklin paused, in that distinguished little assembly, and then said with a smile: “Well, sir, I was what they call ‘on the prod’; just moving from place to place, doing this and that; punching cattle – that’s driving them, you know –”
“I know,” said the King. “But you’re not a cow-hand.”
“Why, no, sir. Most of the time, when my partner and I could raise the stake, we went prospecting – mining for silver, gold, in the sierras.”
“Extraordinary. A miner forty-niner, eh?” The King sat back in his chair. “May I have one of your cigarettes?”
Mr Franklin realized that quite unconsciously he had drawn his case from his pocket, and was turning it between his fingers. He hastened to open it; the King took the case and examined its contents.
“What’s this? ‘Colonel Bogey’? Don’t know them.” He put one between his lips, closed the case and examined it, before returning it.
“And then – you struck it rich? Isn’t that the expression?” He looked directly at Mr Franklin while Mrs Keppel lighted the cigarette for him.
“Not too badly, sir. We paid for our trip.”
“And for a trip to England?” The King puffed, coughed, and peered at the cigarette.
“Why, yes, sir. My family was English, a long time back.”
“Yes – Soveral was telling me you’ve brought a house. Now, most of our American visitors ‘do’ the sights, buy up Bond Street, take all the best shooting, and marry into the House of Lords.” The King coughed and chuckled. “Can’t blame the peers – marrying rich Americans is about all they’ll be able to do if Mr Lloyd George has his way. Eh, Halford? But –” to Mr Franklin again “– you mean to stay, I gather?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Remarkable.” The King coughed again, and regarded his cigarette. “Alice, you may stop rebuking me; I shall never smoke cigarettes again.”
“Never, sir!” Mrs Keppel made a pretty grimace of mock surprise. “I can’t believe that!”
“True, though.” The King replaced his cigarette, wheezing. “I shall cease smoking cigarettes, and smoke only ‘Colonel Bogeys’. I’m not sure what they are, but they’re certainly not cigarettes. Eh, Franklin?”
Mr Franklin smiled apologetically amidst the polite laughter, and the King went on:
“Do any hunting in Mexico?”
“Hardly, sir. But I have hunted in the Rocky Mountains.”
“Someone got a grizzly bear in his luncheon basket that time, did he?” The little eyes screwed up in royal mirth, the others applauded dutifully, and his majesty went on to say that that reminded him, what about dinner?
Sir Charles Clayton had been turning anxious glances towards the door for five minutes; Peggy had vanished, presumably to see what was happening in the kitchen. At this reminder Sir Charles looked wretched and muttered an apology, Mrs Keppel covered the embarrassed silence with a bright remark, and the King sat back, grumbling quietly. Mr Franklin, from his place by the mantelpiece, observed the looks that were being exchanged among the guests, marvelled inwardly at the curious atmosphere which, he supposed, must surround royalty even in this democratic age, and decided it was nothing to do with him. Should he offer the King another cigarette? – probably better not; the portly figure had disgruntlement written in every line of it now, and even Mrs Keppel was looking anxious. Clayton, who had aged five years in as many minutes, muttered another apology and fled from the room; there were a few muted whispers, a stifled laugh, and a growl from the King. The minutes ticked by; Mr Franklin wondered if he should offer conversation, but was restrained by a vague sense that one didn’t speak in the presence of royalty until spoken to. He made the most of his time by examining the King surreptitiously: how old was he? Around seventy, and in some ways he looked it; the beard was grey, although the moustache was still dark, but the face was heavily-veined and high living had puffed up the fat round eyes which, Mr Franklin reflected, were probably small and shrewd in a King, but in a commoner might well have been described as piggy. Powerful build, though, and vigorous enough apart from that cough; in the silence he could hear the asthmatic rustle – old man Davis had sounded just the same; come to think of it, if you put a red undervest on Edward VII, and a battered old hat, he’d pass for a Tonopah silver-hog anywhere. What would Davis have thought if he could see his partner now, hob-nobbing with royalty; what would his ghost be saying if it were at Mr Franklin’s shoulder …?
“That the King? The King? King of England? Well, goddamighty! Looks a likely old feller, don’t he? Knows a few songs an’ stories, I bet. And that she-male coo-in’ over him? Say, wherever did you see a pair o’ paps like those? Ain’t those the real artickles, them; and ain’t she the finest piece of meat you ever saw in a skirt? Why, the dirty old goat, she’s wasted on him! Say, wouldn’t I like to squire her to the Bella Union, though, an’ get her playful on whisky-punch? Yessir, she’d be a real playful lady …”
Mr Franklin became suddenly aware that the King was looking at him – God, had he been thinking aloud? But in fact his majesty was merely examining him speculatively; there was even a twinkle in his pouchy eyes. Presumably some happy thought had momentarily banished his sulky impatience for dinner.
“‘On the prod’, was it? Curious expression. Not the same thing as ‘on the dodge,’ though, I fancy?”
“No, sir. No, not at all,” said Mr Franklin, and despite himself he felt a tiny prickle on his spine. It occurred to him that in their brief conversation King Edward had probably found out more about him in two minutes than most people could have discovered in two years, and was even making a little humorous speculation. No, he hadn’t been on the dodge; not really – not until now, at any rate. And this tubby old gentleman had sensed it. It occurred to Mr Franklin that possibly being a king, and presumably spending a lifetime among statesmen and diplomats and ministers, probably did nothing to blunt a man’s native shrewdness; he was certainly nobody’s fool, this one. Fortunately Mr Franklin was spared any further embarrassing inquisition by the announcement of dinner, at which royalty heaved up gratefully, and even beamed at the slightly flustered Peggy.
“Trouble below stairs?” inquired the King playfully, as he took her arm, and Peggy admitted that the cook had had a little trouble with the ptarmigan.
“Oh,” said the King. “Ptarmigan.” It was said with a weight of gloom which caused Mrs Keppel to raise her eyebrows; to Mr Franklin’s surprise she offered her arm to him, and he found himself pacing behind the King with the King’s mistress for his escort, while she enthused again about his gift of spurs. She had, in fact, been rather sorry for Mr Franklin, cut off and presumably out of his depth during the royal sulk, and exerted herself to put him at his ease – and the effect of Alice Keppel, when she set herself to charm, was such that Mr Franklin took his seat at dinner feeling quite ashamed at himself for allowing old Davis’s lewd thoughts to run through his mind.
Dinner, to his relief, was far less of an ordeal than he had expected. It was served at an enormous round table in what even Mr Franklin recognized as being a rather shabby dining-room; with frontier insight he guessed that the silver and crockery had probably been hired from Norwich or even London for the occasion; it was rather too splendid for its surroundings. He was seated about halfway round from the King, who was flanked by Mrs Keppel and another lady; Peggy, as hostess, sat approximately opposite the royal chair, next to Mr Franklin. To his surprise, she exhibited none of the nervousness that he would have expected; her slight disorder immediately before dinner, she explained to him sotto voce over the soup, had been the result of what she described as a flaming row with that bloody cook, and the bitch could pack her traps in the morning. Mr Franklin considered this gravely, and remarked that the soup was extremely good.
“D’you think so? Well, I’m glad someone’s pleased. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if the whole meal’s inedible.” Peggy sipped at her spoon and leaned forward, smiling brightly, to answer Lord Arlesdon, seated farther round the table. “I mean, it’s all just too horrid-ino for words, isn’t it?” she went on to Mr Franklin. “Why did he have to come here for the night, when he could have stayed with the Albemarles, or at Elveden? It would have been bad enough, even if Mummy had still been alive, but as it is … well, I’m not up to playing mother-hen, and I don’t care who knows it.” She laid down her spoon and pulled a face. “Poor old Daddy – how he’s suffering!”
Sir Charles was certainly showing signs of strain, Mr Franklin reflected. He was sitting beside Mrs Keppel, smiling mechanically as she talked, but every few seconds his eye would stray towards the King, who had finished his soup and was studying the empty plate with deep melancholy, crumbling a roll. Sir Charles bit his lip and turned back to Mrs Keppel, but by now she was talking to a slight, vacant-looking man across the table.
“That’s Jinks Smith, the royal whipping-boy,” murmured Peggy in answer to Mr Franklin’s inquiry. “And beside father is Lady Topping, and then Lord Arlesdon, who’ll be a duke some day and is supposed to be a prize catch, and then that distinguished American – what’s his name? Franklin, of course – and then Miss Peggy Clayton, who is going mad trying to catch the butler’s eye – oh thank goodness he’s noticed, so with any luck we’ll get the pâté before midnight. Then the Marquis de Soveral you know, and Halford, who’s the King’s equerry, and Mrs Jensen, and Ponsonby, and Smith and Viscountess Dalston. Cosy, isn’t it? The seating is all wrong – that’ll be another fault, no doubt – far too few ladies, and several distinguished gentlemen are not dining – do you know why? Simply because there isn’t room – so the Honourable George Keppel for one isn’t here, nor Lord Dalston, and if it weren’t for Daddy’s sake I wouldn’t be either. It … it makes one feel so small – knowing that things aren’t up to scratch, and that Halford and Ponsonby will be looking at each other later and sighing ever so wearily.” Peggy stabbed moodily at her pâté as though it, too, had sighed. “Arthur’s well out of it – lucky dog. He and the others will be having a jolly good time in the nursery.” She sighed. “Oh, who cares?”
Mr Franklin was not certain whether to take these confidences as a compliment or not; he guessed she would have gone to the stake rather than make them to one of her English acquaintances, but presumably he, not being of that charmed circle, and therefore unimportant, was a suitable recipient. But he could guess that for all her pretended indifference, the strain of preparing for the King’s visit, of minor crises about ginger biscuits and ptarmigan, of anxiety about being thought “not up to scratch”, of imagining arch looks and raised eyebrows, must be considerable even on this self-confident young beauty; it all mattered, in her world.
“I’m sorry your brother isn’t here,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll see him later on, though?”
Peggy giggled. “He’ll probably want to fight you again, if you do. I think he was awfully disappointed that you wouldn’t square up to him this afternoon.”
“I can imagine. And I’d guess he’s a pretty useful scrapper, too.”
“Oh, he was Universities Heavy-weight Champion – before he went to Sandhurst.” She smiled mischievously. “So perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t take him on.”
But Mr Franklin was not to be drawn. “Yes, just as well, I guess. For one thing, he seems like a nice fellow. And I make it a rule never to fight a nice fellow in front of his sister.”
“Why ever not?”
“Well, if he beats you, she won’t admire you – and if you beat him, she won’t like you.”
But Peggy was not to be drawn either. She smiled and sipped her white wine. “I take it your rule applies only with brothers and sisters. If it had been Frank Lacy?”
“Who? Oh, ‘milord”, the polite one. No, I guess I wouldn’t have minded too much if he’d become violent – for a moment this afternoon I thought he was going to.”
“You mean you hoped he was going to. I was watching, remember – do you know, Jarvie said you looked ready to do murder?” She laughed cheerfully. “Were you?”
“Not quite.” He glanced round the table. “Where is he, by the way? – he looked like the kind who would get fitted in somehow.”
“Oh, he was – until the King invited you to dinner. You’re occupying his place, you know.” She eyed him with amusement. “He wasn’t very pleased, I can tell you.”
Mr Franklin studied her thoughtfully. “No, he wouldn’t be. Would this be … his usual place?”
“He thinks it ought to be,” said Peggy carelessly. “And what Frank thinks ought to be – well, ought to be, you know.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind in the least, I may say. Do him good to have his nose out of joint for a change – Frank thinks he owns the earth, as well as half the county.”
“I see.” Mr Franklin nodded pensively, and found himself glancing across at Sir Charles. “Not two beans to rub together,” Thornhill had said, and it was confirmed by what he had seen. Good-looking daughter, wealthy young landowner showing interest – uh-huh. No wonder Sir Charles’s enforced invitation had been chilly. But his daughter didn’t seem to mind; Mr Franklin imagined that she was not the kind to be a dutiful child unless it suited her, or that she would find a nature like Lord Lacy’s to be entirely to her taste. He turned to look at her; she was catching the butler’s eye, and fish was coming to replace the pâté. She met Mr Franklin’s look and sighed.
“Let us pray for the success of poached salmon,” she said solemnly. “Cook wanted trout, but I overruled her, and it would be just like her to ruin it. Oh, well, if Kingie doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it, and that’s that.”
Mr Franklin considered his fish, and took a sip of his wine. “You don’t care for entertaining too much?”
“Not this sort – well, who would? It’s like having a particularly bad-tempered baby on one’s hands. Oh, I know he can be jolly enough, but he sulks so much, and shows how bored he is, and the people who traipse about after him are the giddy limit. Mrs Keppel’s a darling, and the Marquis is a pet …” She turned to Soveral and said: “I’m just telling Mr Franklin how divvy you are, marquis. Aren’t you flattered?”
Soveral laughed and bowed. “Alas, I am far too fierce-looking, and far too grown-up to be ‘divvy’ any longer, Miss Peggy. Don’t you agree, Mr Franklin?”
“I might if I knew what divvy meant,” said Mr Franklin, and was promptly informed by his hostess that it was short for divine. “I don’t know what we’d do without the Marquis and La Keppel, anyway,” Peggy went on. “But isn’t it ghastly, so many people having to kowtow and scrape and butter up, just to keep one odious old man from being thoroughly ill-natured all the time?”
Mr Franklin stole a glance at the table, but everyone was talking animatedly, presumably to compensate for the royal silence, and Peggy’s indiscretions went unheard. “Well, he doesn’t seem too bad, you know,” he said. “I guess when I’m his age I’ll be pretty cranky, too.” Privately, he thought on short acquaintance that his majesty had probably had too much of his own way all his life, but no doubt that went with kingship, he decided. The King, after a mouthful of his fish, had laid down his fork and was muttering to Mrs Keppel, who preserved her bland smile in the face of what was obviously a royal complaint.
“Wait till he’s had the ptarmigan pie, and he’ll wish he’d eaten his fish,” remarked Peggy. “Did you ever see anything so disagreeable? I mean, honestly, even if the fish is rotten, would you sit mumping like that if you had Alice beside you, positively slaving to cheer you up?”
“I hope not. I’d try not to, anyway.”
“I think she’s a gorgeous creature,” said Peggy, looking across the table. “And one of those lucky people who are even nicer than they look.”
He smiled at her. “You don’t need to be jealous, you know. She’s not the prettiest girl in this room.”
“Oh, come off it!” Peggy glanced at him sidelong, and her mouth took on the tiny sneer which he had noticed in the hall, but she looked pleased nonetheless. “Every woman would be jealous of looking like that, including yours truly. Anyway, look where it’s got her.”
“Is that such a happy position? I wonder what Mr Keppel thinks about it.”
She turned to stare at him, and the little sneer seemed to him even more marked; at that, he decided, that angel face was still something that Mrs Keppel, for all her beauty, might have envied.
“Don’t tell me you’re shocked? A Puritan Uncle Sam? Really!” She shrugged. “Well, I suppose he feels quite honoured, don’t you?”
“I can’t imagine it. Can’t see that any man would be. In fact, I feel sorry for him. And for Mrs Keppel. Don’t you? I mean, would …” He realized what he had been going to say, and stopped. “I beg your pardon. I …”
“You were going to say, ‘would I, if I were Mrs Keppel’, weren’t you?” He was slightly shocked to see that she was regarding him with amusement. She glanced across the table. “It’s a dreadful thought. Still, if I were her age, I suppose I might. I don’t know.”
Mr Franklin felt decidedly uncomfortable. He was far from being a prude, by his own lights, but that had nothing to do with it. What he disliked was what seemed to him a deliberate display of cynicism, assumed by this lovely young woman presumably because it was the smart, advanced thing to do; it was so much part of the hard, artificial atmosphere which he could feel round that dinner-table, and it annoyed him quite unreasonably. How old was she? Nineteen, perhaps twenty, and she was trying to pretend that she held the views and values of the women who made up the royal circle – well, he didn’t know what they were like, but he could guess. Peggy was so obviously not their sort, and he felt somehow demeaned that she should try to convince him that she was. Still, she was young, and no doubt it was natural enough that she should want to appear worldly; it couldn’t be easy for a young girl, having to play hostess to the smartest set in the world for a week-end. Mr Franklin began to eat his ptarmigan pie. It was awful, and automatically he glanced towards the King, to see how it was being received there. Sure enough, his majesty was looking displeased; his pie was untouched, and he was staring round the table, frowning.
“Thirteen,” said the King suddenly; he said it loudly, and everyone stopped talking. “Thirteen,” he repeated, and then to Mrs Keppel: “Alice, there are thirteen of us at dinner.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs Keppel brightly. “I never noticed. Well …”
The King muttered irritably, picked up his fork, glared at his ptarmigan pie, put down his fork, and pulled his napkin away fretfully. “I don’t like having thirteen at dinner,” he exclaimed petulantly. “Don’t people know that?”
There was dead silence round the table, broken by a sharp clatter as one of the servants at the buffet dropped a spoon. Everyone was looking at the table-cloth, except for Sir Charles, who was gazing in consternation at his daughter. Mr Franklin raised his glass and stole a sidelong glance at her; she was looking straight ahead, her face pale. Mr Franklin was beginning to wonder if he had heard right; was the King seriously objecting because the guests made up an unlucky number? Evidently he was, for Mrs Keppel suddenly said, looking across at Peggy:
“Perhaps we could have another place set, my dear? If your brother would join us? Then we should be fourteen, and …” She made a gesture that combined apology, appeal, and whimsicality all in one, but the King was growling beside her, apparently indicating that his dinner was spoiled.
“Oh, stop it, Alice. It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does! I feel ever so uncomfortable myself when there are thirteen.”
“Unlucky,” said one of the men helpfully. “Thirteen.”
“I’ll send for Arthur,” Peggy was beginning, and Mr Franklin could hear the trembling snap in her voice; careful, King, he thought, or you’re liable to get a plateful of ptarmigan pie where you won’t like it. He suddenly wanted to laugh aloud; it was too foolish for words, but although there was a variety of expressions on the faces round the table, astonishment was not among them. Sir Charles, who had been so cool and precise and assured this afternoon, was literally pulling at his collar, and preparing to get to his feet, but he was forestalled from an unexpected quarter.
The insignificant-looking Smith was rising. “No, no, not necessary; I’ve a much better idea.” He bowed towards the King. “With your permission, sir, I’ll take my dinner over there, on that corner table. Then there’ll only be twelve, what?”
“Shall I join you, Jinks?” said Soveral quickly, and Mrs Keppel, laughing, cried: “No, no, Jinks, it’s too silly!” but Smith was on his feet, beckoning one of the servants, telling him to mind and not spill his glass, indicating the corner table, and people were laughing as though at some excellent joke. Mr Franklin sat stupefied, watching Smith bustling about, directing the servants, until they had transferred his place to the small table by the buffet, and he had seated himself, pulling comical faces, holding his knife and fork like a caricature of a hungry small boy, and then waving to Peggy and calling: “Toodleoo, old thing! It’s ever so jolly over here!”
The King had slewed round in his chair to look at him. “Jinks,” he said, “you’re an ass.”
“Of course, sir!” cried Smith. “Here, where’s my ptarmigan pie?”
“You can have mine, if you like,” said the King, and taking up his plate he placed it on the floor beside his chair. “Come on, Fido!” he snapped his fingers. “Come, boy! There’s a good doggie!”
Smith said “Woof! woof!”, and Mr Franklin almost expected him to drop on all fours and crawl across the floor, but at that moment the King turned back to the table. He was laughing, and of course the table was laughing, too, including Peggy. Mr Franklin suddenly realized that his own features were twisted into an expression of mirth – he hurriedly took a drink, and plunged into conversation with Lord Arlesdon. What he said, he had no idea, but it occurred to him later that his lordship was almost certainly not listening. What Mr Franklin was thinking was, I don’t believe this, but I know it’s happening. Presently he took stock of the table again; the flow of conversation had resumed, the King was actually eating heartily and talking loudly to Mrs Keppel while he shovelled away at his plate, Peggy was laughing at something that Soveral was saying – and over by the buffet Smith was clamouring for another helping, and being treated to various sallies from the male guests on that side of the table. Mr Franklin continued his meal, determined not to meet anyone’s eye.
“You see what I mean?” murmured Peggy quietly. “Do you know what I think I should do, if it weren’t for Daddy? I think,” she went on dreamily, “that when the ices came I should take one and smear it all over his fat, ugly, piggy, nasty little face. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”
“Don’t they put you in the Tower for that sort of thing?” wondered Mr Franklin.
“They put you on the front page of the Express,” said Peggy. “Ah, well, daydreams, daydreams. However, he seems happy enough for the moment, the old beast.” The King’s deep laugh boomed across the table, and a moment later Peggy was laughing animatedly with Mrs Keppel, and calling across a gay inquiry to the distant Smith a fatuity about his not wanting an ice since he was dining in Siberia, which provoked a royal chuckle.
His majesty was equally affable when the time came for the ladies to rise, bowing to Peggy as they withdrew and complimenting her on a capital dinner, absolutely capital; she in turn bestowed on him a dazzling smile and curtsied magnificently in the doorway with a rustle of skirts and a gleam of white shoulders and bosom as she sank beneath the approving monarchial eye. As the door closed the gentlemen moved in to those seats nearest the King’s, Mr Franklin making haste to follow. But when Smith would have joined them, he was waved away by the royal hand.
“No, no, Fido; dirty little doggies don’t sit round for their port. Here, come to heel – come on, there’s a good boy.” He took up a decanter and saucer, turning his chair and stooping with difficulty to fill the saucer at his feet. “Now then, Fido,” the King beckoned with the cigar which Ponsonby had lit for him, while the others crowded round his chair, “come and get drinkies, there’s a good dog! Come on!”
Smith dropped obediently on all fours, and scuttled across the carpet making joyful barking noises. As he began to lap up the port, his face in the saucer, the King gravely tilted the decanter and poured its contents over the courtier’s head. There were roars of laughter as Smith shook himself like a retriever, splashing port broadcast, the King crying out in disgust and protesting boisterously that he was a dirty dog, and not fit to be in a gentleman’s dining-room. Then, good humour at its height, Soveral chuckling genially while his dark eyes strayed watchfully, Sir Charles wearing a fixed grin, and the rest chortling loudly at Smith’s discomfiture, they settled down to their cigars and conversation. Smith was permitted to take a seat, amidst much boorish banter and shoving, and was soon deep in animated talk with his neighbour, oblivious of the sticky, plastered condition of his hair, and the wine which continued to trickle down his face on to his soaked shirt-front. Mr Franklin contemplated the wine-sodden figure, the pallid face, and the nervous, unnaturally bright eyes which occasionally met his own only to slide quickly away – and wondered.
They were not long over their port. The banalities of conversation soon bored even the King, who presently heaved himself up and led the way to the drawing-room, where the ladies were assembled. Here his majesty took a fresh cigar, coughed resoundingly and announced: “Bridge. All right, Soveral? And let’s see – Alice, are you ready? That’s three –” and as he surveyed the company Mr Franklin was conscious of a tremor in his stomach. With luck one of the others … “No, no, Halford, I haven’t forgotten – you trumped my queen last week. Where’s our American friend? Ah, there you are, Franklin – come on!”
He stumped across to the card-table in the alcove where packs and pads were already laid out; Mr Franklin preserved an unmoved countenance, despite a grimace and commiserating wave from Peggy across the room, and followed. As he pulled out a chair for Mrs Keppel, and Soveral moved to join them, the King flicked over the top four cards – “Alice, Soveral, Franklin, and the head that wears the crown – uneasily, too, since I’ve got you as partner, Alice. Come along, then – England versus the United States and Portugal, what? Stakes – no, none of your two penny whist stakes, Soveral –” he nudged the Marquis ostentatiously – “heavens, your partner’s a silver millionaire, and you can pay up out of diplomatic funds! Shilling a point, eh?” He beamed genially over his cigar while Mrs Keppel cut and Soveral dealt, and the game began.
For Mr Franklin it was a disconcerting experience. He had a reasonable knowledge of whist, picked up in the parlours of those dimly-remembered Western school-houses where he and his father had sometimes played with a local doctor and his wife, or it might have been a parson and his sister – but that was a long time ago. Thanks to Thornhill he knew that the principle of bridge was to bid for tricks, and he kept trying to remember the little mnemonic about suit seniority: “Solomon has …” What did Solomon have – some kind of crockery – spades, heart, something, and clubs; well, it must be diamonds, then … He arranged his cards carefully, conscious of the heavy bulk of the King at his right elbow, the heavy asthmatic wheezing, and a subtle mixture of cigar smoke and pomade; to his left, even more distracting, was the perfumed beauty of Mrs Keppel, which at a range of two feet was positively overpowering; whatever he did, he must not allow his glance to rest on the white splendour of her superb bust, which was difficult, since it seemed to project alluringly halfway across the table. He shifted his legs, accidentally touched her shoe, muttered an apology, received a sweet smile of reassurance, and heard the King mutter: “If you must kick someone, Alice, kick me – right shin for major suits, left for minors, remember!” followed by a throaty chuckle.
“Club,” said Soveral, and the King promptly said: “A heart,” and replaced his cigar, his small eyes turning challengingly in Mr Franklin’s direction.
Mr Franklin examined his cards – he had the ace, queen, ten, and two other hearts, the king of clubs, and nothing else. Which, in view of his majesty’s bid, was interesting, but to a novice like Mr Franklin, of no particular use; he hesitated a second, and then for no good reason said: “Two clubs,” at which Mrs Keppel gave a little fluttering sigh and smiled winningly round the table.
“Well, well, come on, Alice,” growled the King. “They’ve got clubs, we suspect. What have you got to say?”
“Let me see …” Mrs Keppel puckered her flawless brow and tapped her lips thoughtfully. “I think …. one diamond – oh, no, of course, two diamonds. Yes, two diamonds.”
“Double two diamonds,” said Soveral, to Mr Franklin’s total bewilderment – did that mean Soveral was bidding diamonds himself? (Thornhill’s instruction had not gone the length of doubling.) The King growled cheerfully, and leered across the table.
“Shall I leave you, Alice? Or redouble, eh?” In reply to her squeak of protest he grumbled happily, said “Two hearts,” and squinted at Mr Franklin.
