A Damsel in Distress

"That girl," said Lord Marshmoreton vehemently, "was driving me

crazy. Always bothering me to come and work on that damned family

history. Never gave me a moment's peace . . ."

"I liked her," said George.

"Nice enough girl," admitted his lordship grudgingly. "But a damned

nuisance about the house; always at me to go on with the family

history. As if there weren't better things to do with one's time

than writing all day about my infernal fools of ancestors!"

"Isn't dadda fractious today?" said Billie reprovingly, giving the

Earl's hand a pat. "Quit knocking your ancestors! You're very lucky

to have ancestors. I wish I had. The Dore family seems to go back

about as far as the presidency of Willard Filmore, and then it kind

of gets discouraged and quite cold. Gee! I'd like to feel that my

great-great-great-grandmother had helped Queen Elizabeth with the

rent. I'm strong for the fine old stately families of England."

"Stately old fiddlesticks!" snapped the earl.

"Did you see his eyes flash then, George? That's what they call

aristocratic rage. It's the fine old spirit of the Marshmoretons

boiling over."

"I noticed it," said George. "Just like lightning."

"It's no use trying to fool us, dadda," said Billie. "You know just

as well as I do that it makes you feel good to think that, every

time you cut yourself with your safety-razor, you bleed blue!"

"A lot of silly nonsense!" grumbled the earl.

"What is?"

"This foolery of titles and aristocracy. Silly fetish-worship!

One man's as good as another. . . ."

"This is the spirit of '76!" said George approvingly.

"Regular I.W.W. stuff," agreed Billie. "Shake hands the President

of the Bolsheviki!"

Lord Marshmoreton ignored the interruption. There was a strange

look in his eyes. It was evident to George, watching him with close

interest, that here was a revelation of the man's soul; that

thoughts, locked away for years in the other's bosom were crying

for utterance.

"Damned silly nonsense! When I was a boy, I wanted to be

an engine-driver. When I was a young man, I was a Socialist

and hadn't any idea except to work for my living and make a

name for myself. I was going to the colonies. Canada. The

fruit farm was actually bought. Bought and paid for!" He

brooded a moment on that long-lost fruit farm. "My father was

a younger son. And then my uncle must go and break his neck

hunting, and the baby, poor little chap, got croup or something

. . . And there I was, saddled with the title, and all my plans

gone up in smoke . . . Silly nonsense! Silly nonsense!"

He bit the end of a cigar. "And you can't stand up against it," he

went on ruefully. "It saps you. It's like some damned drug. I

fought against it as long as I could, but it was no use. I'm as big

a snob as any of them now. I'm afraid to do what I want to do.

Always thinking of the family dignity. I haven't taken a free step

for twenty-five years."