don't play University of Southern California. No, sir! They know too much.'
Packy was sorry for Jane Opal and regretted that he would be unable to further her interests by coming to the Château Blissac and breaking open safes for her, but he could no longer humble himself before a man who held these monstrous views. He rose, and Mr Gedge regarded him with a glazed eye.
'Where you going?'
'Home.'
'You better, before you get a poke in the nose.'
Packy preserved a proud silence.
'Order another shottle-o'-champagne,' said Mr Gedge.
'Order it yourself,' said Packy.
The brusqueness of the reply seemed to induce in Mr Gedge a swift change of mood. His eyes filled with tears and he leaned his head dejectedly on a plate of ice-cream.
'Nobody loves me,' he whispered.
'Shows their sense,' said Packy.
CHAPTER 6
1
T HE moon which had collaborated with the fairy lanterns in the illumination of the Public Amusement Gardens had the lighting of the sand-dunes by the harbour to look after alone, and was making a half-hearted job of it. Packy, who had strolled on to the dunes for a pipe before returning to his boat, found himself in a world of shadows, and after one or two stumbles on the uncertain pathway he decided to sit down and stroll no more.
In the matter of alcoholic stimulants, Packy had lagged behind his fellow-revellers both during dinner and after it, wishing to keep his head clear for the fascinating of Mr Gedge. He reaped the reward of his abstinence now in a heightened appreciation of the beauties of the night.
It was a warm, soft, silky night, restfully silent. From time to time there came from the direction of the Amusement Gardens the noise of Gallic mirth, but it was too faint to compete with the musical splash of the waves on the shore below. Little breezes whispered about his ears. Shy moths fluttered to and fro. In short, taken by and large, the setting and surroundings were ideal for a good, long lover's reverie.
But Packy, oddly enough, was not thinking of Beatrice. It was the picture of the girl Jane Opal which filled his mind. And as he thought of Jane Opal remorse began to grip him.
He could not conceal it from himself that he had failed the poor child. In the hour of her need, when a little tact might have put him in a position to serve her, he had let her down with a bump. Stung by the other's sneers, he had definitely parted brass-rags with Mr Gedge, with the result that however large and varied the house-party at the Château Blissac might be it could never now include Packy Franklyn in its ranks. He should have persevered with Mr Gedge, he realized too late. He should have been patient and long-suffering with him. He should not have permitted a few derogatory observations on the quality of the football played at Yale to divert him from his purpose.
He had just arrived at this conclusion and had risen, intending to make for the jetty where he had moored the Flying Cloud's dinghy, when abruptly through the night there came to him the sound of running footsteps. Somebody in a hurry was heading his way.
The next moment the moon, peeping from behind a cloud, shone weakly down on the well-remembered form of Mr Soup Slattery.
Mr Slattery was cutting out a good pace, but it was apparent as he reached the little knoll where Packy stood that sprinting was not his forte. He was panting heavily. He came galloping along, sighted Packy, recognized him, waved an agitated arm in the direction from which he had come, shot at him one brief, concentrated look of appeal, then, leaping to the left with the last remnants of energy in him, sank with a gurgle behind the knoll. And for some moments nothing was to be heard but his muffled gasping.
And then once more running feet became audible, and almost immediately there burst in view a posse of St Rocque's able gendarmerie. They, too, appeared a little touched in the wind, and it was plainly with a certain relief that they accepted Packy as an excuse to stop and
Packy was sorry for Jane Opal and regretted that he would be unable to further her interests by coming to the Château Blissac and breaking open safes for her, but he could no longer humble himself before a man who held these monstrous views. He rose, and Mr Gedge regarded him with a glazed eye.
'Where you going?'
'Home.'
'You better, before you get a poke in the nose.'
Packy preserved a proud silence.
'Order another shottle-o'-champagne,' said Mr Gedge.
'Order it yourself,' said Packy.
The brusqueness of the reply seemed to induce in Mr Gedge a swift change of mood. His eyes filled with tears and he leaned his head dejectedly on a plate of ice-cream.
'Nobody loves me,' he whispered.
'Shows their sense,' said Packy.
CHAPTER 6
1
T HE moon which had collaborated with the fairy lanterns in the illumination of the Public Amusement Gardens had the lighting of the sand-dunes by the harbour to look after alone, and was making a half-hearted job of it. Packy, who had strolled on to the dunes for a pipe before returning to his boat, found himself in a world of shadows, and after one or two stumbles on the uncertain pathway he decided to sit down and stroll no more.
In the matter of alcoholic stimulants, Packy had lagged behind his fellow-revellers both during dinner and after it, wishing to keep his head clear for the fascinating of Mr Gedge. He reaped the reward of his abstinence now in a heightened appreciation of the beauties of the night.
It was a warm, soft, silky night, restfully silent. From time to time there came from the direction of the Amusement Gardens the noise of Gallic mirth, but it was too faint to compete with the musical splash of the waves on the shore below. Little breezes whispered about his ears. Shy moths fluttered to and fro. In short, taken by and large, the setting and surroundings were ideal for a good, long lover's reverie.
But Packy, oddly enough, was not thinking of Beatrice. It was the picture of the girl Jane Opal which filled his mind. And as he thought of Jane Opal remorse began to grip him.
He could not conceal it from himself that he had failed the poor child. In the hour of her need, when a little tact might have put him in a position to serve her, he had let her down with a bump. Stung by the other's sneers, he had definitely parted brass-rags with Mr Gedge, with the result that however large and varied the house-party at the Château Blissac might be it could never now include Packy Franklyn in its ranks. He should have persevered with Mr Gedge, he realized too late. He should have been patient and long-suffering with him. He should not have permitted a few derogatory observations on the quality of the football played at Yale to divert him from his purpose.
He had just arrived at this conclusion and had risen, intending to make for the jetty where he had moored the Flying Cloud's dinghy, when abruptly through the night there came to him the sound of running footsteps. Somebody in a hurry was heading his way.
The next moment the moon, peeping from behind a cloud, shone weakly down on the well-remembered form of Mr Soup Slattery.
Mr Slattery was cutting out a good pace, but it was apparent as he reached the little knoll where Packy stood that sprinting was not his forte. He was panting heavily. He came galloping along, sighted Packy, recognized him, waved an agitated arm in the direction from which he had come, shot at him one brief, concentrated look of appeal, then, leaping to the left with the last remnants of energy in him, sank with a gurgle behind the knoll. And for some moments nothing was to be heard but his muffled gasping.
And then once more running feet became audible, and almost immediately there burst in view a posse of St Rocque's able gendarmerie. They, too, appeared a little touched in the wind, and it was plainly with a certain relief that they accepted Packy as an excuse to stop and
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