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.