Pelham Wodehouse - Spring Fever

"Do you know a man named Cobbold, Father?" she said. She consulted the buff sheet of paper in her hand. "Ellery Cobbold he signs himself."

Like a bull which, suddenly annoyed by a picador, turns from the matador who had previously engrossed its attention, Lord Shortlands shelved the thought of joint accounts for the time being and puffed belligerently.

"Ellery Cobbold? That fellow in New York? I should say I do. He sours my life."

"But how do you come to be connected with him?"

"He's connected with me. Or says he is. Claims he's a sort of cousin."

"Well, I cannot see that that entitles him to expect us to put his son Stanwood up for an indeterminate visit."

"Does he?"

"That's what he says in his cable. I never heard such impertinence."

"Bally crust," agreed Lord Shortlands, indignant but not surprised. After what had occurred that morning when the stable clock was striking seven, he could scarcely be astonished at any excesses on Mr. Cobbold's part.

Only Terry seemed pleased.

"Is Stanwood Cobbold coming here?" she said. "Splendid."

"Do you know him?"

"We're like ham and eggs."

"Like what?"

"I mean that's how well we get along together. Stanwood's an angel. He saved my life in London."

Down at the table something stirred. It was Desborough Topping coming to the surface.

"Ellery Cobbold?" he said, the name having just penetrated to his stamp-drugged consciousness. "I was in college with Ellery Cobbold. Fat fellow."

"Indeed?"

"Very rich now, I believe."

Lady Adela started.

"Rich?"

"Worth millions, I guess," said Desborough, and dived back into the album.

A change had come over Lady Adela's iron front. Her eyes seemed softer. They had lost their stern anti-Cobbold glare.

"Oh, is he? And you say he's some connection of ours, Father? And his son is friend of yours, Terry? Then of course we must ask him here," said Lady Adela heartily. "Desborough, go and send him a telegram—here's the address—saying that we shall be delighted to put him up. Sign it 'Shortlands.' The cable was addressed to you, Father."

"Was that why you opened it?" asked Lord Shortlands, who had begun to feel ruffled again about that joint account.

"Say that Father will be coming in this afternoon in the car—"

A sigh escaped Lord Shortlands. Permission to go to London, and only two-and-eightpence to spend when he got there. This, he supposed, was the sort of thing Cosmo Blair had been alluding to at dinner last night, when he had spoken of tragic irony.

"—and will bring him back with him. Have you got that clear? Then run along. Oh, and you had better cable Mr. Cobbold, saying how delighted we are. Pistachio, New York. New York is one word."

"Yes, dear. I'll take this album with me. It's quite interesting. I've already found a stamp that's worth several pounds."

"Then Clare must certainly not give the thing to her jumble sale until you have thoroughly examined it," said Lady Adela with decision. She shared her sister's views about not overdoing it when you are aiding indigent villagers.

It seemed to Lord Shortlands that the time had come to get his property rights firmly established. The mention of stamps worth several pounds had stirred him profoundly, and all this loose talk about jumble sales, he felt, must be checked without delay.

"Just a minute, just a minute," he said. "Clare isn't going to have that album. Ridiculous. Absurd."

"What do you mean?"

"Perfect rot. Never heard of such a thing."

"But what has it to do with you?"

"It's my album."

"Nonsense."

"It is, I tell you. I used to collect stamps."

"Years ago."

"Well, the thing's probably been in that cupboard for years. Look at the dust on it. What more likely than that I should have put my album in a cupboard and forgotten all about it?"

"Well, I haven't time to discuss it now. Run along, Desborough."

"Yes, dear."

As the door closed, Lady Adela had another idea.

"It might be a good thing, Father, if you were to start at once. Then you could give Mr. Cobbold lunch."

"What!"

Lady Adela repeated her remark, and Lord Shortlands closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were praying.

"An excellent idea," he said in a hushed voice. "At the Ritz."

"You're behind the times, Shorty," said Terry. "Barribault's is the posh place now."

"Then make it Barribault's," said Lord Shortlands agreeably.

"And you can take Terry with you."

Terry blinked.

"Did you hear what I heard, Shorty?"

"'Take Terry with you' was the way I got it."

"That's what it sounded like to me, too. Do you really mean this, Adela?"

"Make yourself look nice."

"A vision," said Terry, and started off to do so.

She left Lord Shortlands uplifted but bewildered. He was at a loss to account for this sudden spasm of openhandedness in a daughter generally prudent to a fault. He found himself reminded of the Christmas Day activities of the late Scrooge.

"This may be a most fortunate thing that has happened, Father," said Adela. "Terry is a very attractive girl, and apparently she and this Mr. Cobbold are good friends already. And he saved her life, she says. Odd she should not have mentioned that before. I wonder how it happened. It seems to me that, being here together, they might quite easily—"

"Good Lord!" said Lord Shortlands, enlightened. He was also a little shocked. "Don't you women ever think of anything but trying to fix up weddings?"

"Well, it's quite time that Terry got married. It would steady her."

"Terry doesn't need steadying."

"How can you talk like that, Father, after the way she ran off and—"

"Oh, all right, all right. And now," said Lord Shortlands, for he felt that too much time was being wasted on these trivialities, "in the matter of expenses. I shall need quite a bit of working capital."

"Nonsense. Two pounds will be ample."

It is not often that anyone sees an earl in the act of not believing his ears. Lady Adela was privileged to do so now. Lord Shortlands' prominent eyes, so well adapted for staring incredulously, seemed in danger of leaping from their sockets.

"Two pounds?" he cried. "Great heavens! How about cocktails? How about cigars? How about wines, liqueurs and spirits?"

"I'm not going to have you stuffing yourself with wines and liqueurs. You know how weak your head is."

"My head is not weak. It's as strong as an ox. And it is not a question of stuffing myself, as you call it, with wines and liqueurs. I shall have to do this boy well, shan't I? You don't want him thinking he's accepting the hospitality of Gaspard the miser, do you? It's a little hard," said Lord Shortlands, quivering with the self-pity which came so easily to him. "You bundle me off to London at a moment's notice, upsetting my day and causing me all sorts of inconvenience, to entertain a young man of whom I know nothing except that his father is off his bally onion, and you expect me to keep the expenses down to an absurd sum like two pounds."

"Oh, very well."

"It's going to be a nice thing for me at the end of lunch, when the coffee is served and this young fellow gazes at me with a wistful look in his eyes, to have to say 'No liqueurs, Cobbold. It won't run to them. Chew a toothpick.' I should blush to my very bones."

"Oh, very well, very well. Here is five pounds."

"Couldn't you make it ten?"

"No, I could not make it ten," said Lady Adela with the testiness of a conjurer asked to do too difficult a trick.

"Well, all right. Though it's running it fine. I foresee a painful moment at the table, when the chap is swilling down his wine and I am compelled to say 'Not quite so rapidly, young Cobbold. Eke it out, my boy, eke it out. There isn't going to be a second bottle.' How about seven pounds ten? Splitting the difference, if you see what I mean. Well, I merely asked," said Lord Short-lands, addressing the closing door.