(I could hardly believe my eyes, of my ears, either). For who should rise in his place but Dad! Yes, there he stood, the old darling, a brimming champagne glass in his hand, a beatific expression on his face. And this is what he was saying:
"Our hostess has asked me to do something, which is to announce the engagement of my daughter and her son. Let us drink to their happiness.""Bravo!" cried the Duke. "I give the American three cheers: Rah, rah, rah!" "How delightfully boyish the dear Duke is," observed Mrs.
Sanderson-Spear, beaming at him from across the table.
"So ingenious, I mean so ingenuous," assented a languid lady from San Francisco. "But we must stand up; toute le monde is standing up, my dear."And so it was, standing up to drink our healths, Blakely's and mine, while Blakely held my hand under the table.
"Bravo!" cried the Duke. "It ees delightful. I cannot make the speech, mais, mademoiselle, monsieur--I drink your health." He drained his glass, then flung it, with a magnificent gesture, over his shoulder. "It ees so we drink to royalty," he said.
Such a noble example naturally had its effect; there followed a perfect shower of glasses. Indeed, I think every one at table indulged in this pretty piece of extravagance except the third son of an English baronet, who was too busy explaining how it was done at home: "Purely a British custom, you understand--the wardroom of a man-of-war, d'ye see.--They were officers of a Scotch regiment, and they drank it standing on their chairs, with one foot on the table.
And, by gad, I didn't care for it!"--No doubt I should have learned more concerning this purely British custom if the Pierpont Morgan of Pennsylvania hadn't called on Blakely for a speech, just then. Poor Blakely! He didn't know at all how to make a speech. Thought I must say I was rather glad of it; the most tiresome thing about Americans is their eternal speechmaking, I think.
Blakely having faltered his few words of thanks, some one proposed the duke's health; but that had to wait till new glasses were brought in and filled. Altogether, then, instead of being a solemn, dignified affair, such as one might have expected, it was a tremendously jolly dinner--a little rowdy, perhaps, but delightfully friendly. If I had entered the dining room as Old Tom Middleton's daughter, "who actually used to live over a livery stable, my dear,"it was not so I left it; for the nimbus of the sacred name of Porter had already begun to shed its beautiful light on my many graces and social accomplishments. Indeed, when I retired with my hostess to the drawing room, it was to hold a sort of reception; Mrs. Tudor Carstairs vied with Mrs. Sanderson-Spear in assurances of regard, "Choicest Flowers" expressed approval, the German baroness, bless her, conferred the distinction of a motherly kiss. And Blakely's mother was so gracious, so kind and considerate, it was hard to believe we had faced each other, five hours before, with something very like hatred in our eyes.
When Blakely and Dad, and the other men joined us, I was so happy Icould have kicked both my slippers to the ceiling. I might have disgraced myself doing it, too, if the third son of the English baronet hadn't come up just then to felicitate me. He would. have done it charmingly if he hadn't felt constrained to add that Americans always say "dook" instead of "duke," that nobody present seemed to realize the proper way to address a nephew of the Czar was to call him Monseigneur, that the Olympic games in London had been conducted admirably, arid that he didn't believe in marriage, anyway.
But the sweetest thing to me of all that wonderful evening was to see the love and gratitude in Blakely's eyes when he looked at his mother; for a man who doesn't love his mother misses much, and Ilove Blakely so tenderly, I couldn't bear to have him miss the last then that makes for contentment and happiness.
