Though he is too modest to admit it, Lord Doak gives
a cachet to our smart quartier such as it has not
received since the ever-memorable visit of the Earl
of Sittingbourne. Not only is he of the British
peerage, but he is also, on dit, a leader of the British
metal industries. As he comes from Nottingham,
a favorite haunt of Robin Hood, though now, we are
informed by Lord Doak, a live modern city of 275,573
inhabitants, and important lace as well as other industries,
we like to think that perhaps through his veins runs
some of the blood, both virile red and bonny blue,
of that earlier lord o’ the good greenwood, the
roguish Robin.
The lovely Mrs. McKelvey never was more fascinating
than last evening in her black net gown relieved by
dainty bands of silver and at her exquisite waist
a glowing cluster of Aaron Ward roses.
Babbitt said bravely, “I hope they don’t
invite us to meet this Lord Doak guy. Darn sight
rather just have a nice quiet little dinner with Charley
and the Missus.”
At the Zenith Athletic Club they discussed it amply.
“I s’pose we’ll have to call McKelvey
‘Lord Chaz’ from now on,” said Sidney
Finkelstein.
“It beats all get-out,” meditated that
man of data, Howard Littlefield, “how hard it
is for some people to get things straight. Here
they call this fellow ‘Lord Doak’ when
it ought to be ‘Sir Gerald.’”
Babbitt marvelled, “Is that a fact! Well,
well! ‘Sir Gerald,’ eh? That’s
what you call um, eh? Well, sir, I’m glad
to know that.”
Later he informed his salesmen, “It’s
funnier ’n a goat the way some folks that, just
because they happen to lay up a big wad, go entertaining
famous foreigners, don’t have any more idea ’n
a rabbit how to address ’em so’s to make
’em feel at home!”
That evening, as he was driving home, he passed McKelvey’s
limousine and saw Sir Gerald, a large, ruddy, pop-eyed,
Teutonic Englishman whose dribble of yellow mustache
gave him an aspect sad and doubtful. Babbitt
drove on slowly, oppressed by futility. He had
a sudden, unexplained, and horrible conviction that
the McKelveys were laughing at him.
He betrayed his depression by the violence with which
he informed his wife, “Folks that really tend
to business haven’t got the time to waste on
a bunch like the McKelveys. This society stuff
is like any other hobby; if you devote yourself to
it, you get on. But I like to have a chance to
visit with you and the children instead of all this
idiotic chasing round.”
They did not speak of the McKelveys again.
It was a shame, at this worried time, to have to think
about the Overbrooks.
