A Damsel in Distress

"I was never so upset in my life!" said Lady Caroline.

She had been saying the same thing and many other things for the

past five minutes. Until the departure of the last guest she had

kept an icy command of herself and shown an unruffled front to the

world. She had even contrived to smile. But now, with the final

automobile whirring homewards, she had thrown off the mask. The

very furniture of Lord Marshmoreton's study seemed to shrink, seared

by the flame of her wrath. As for Lord Marshmoreton himself, he

looked quite shrivelled.

It had not been an easy matter to bring her erring brother to bay.

The hunt had been in progress full ten minutes before she and Lord

Belpher finally cornered the poor wretch. His plea, through the

keyhole of the locked door, that he was working on the family

history and could not be disturbed, was ignored; and now he was

face to face with the avengers.

"I cannot understand it," continued Lady Caroline. "You know that

for months we have all been straining every nerve to break off this

horrible entanglement, and, just as we had begun to hope that

something might be done, you announce the engagement in the most

public manner. I think you must be out of your mind. I can hardly

believe even now that this appalling thing has happened. I am

hoping that I shall wake up and find it is all a nightmare. How you

can have done such a thing, I cannot understand."

"Quite!" said Lord Belpher.

If Lady Caroline was upset, there are no words in the language that

will adequately describe the emotions of Percy.

From the very start of this lamentable episode in high life, Percy

had been in the forefront of the battle. It was Percy who had had

his best hat smitten from his head in the full view of all

Piccadilly. It was Percy who had suffered arrest and imprisonment

in the cause. It was Percy who had been crippled for days owing to

his zeal in tracking Maud across country. And now all his

sufferings were in vain. He had been betrayed by his own father.

There was, so the historians of the Middle West tell us, a man of

Chicago named Young, who once, when his nerves were unstrung, put

his mother (unseen) in the chopping-machine, and canned her and

labelled her "Tongue". It is enough to say that the glance of

disapproval which Percy cast upon his father at this juncture would

have been unduly severe if cast by the Young offspring upon their

parent at the moment of confession.