Perdita by Joan Smith Page B

hours, but I for one don’t believe a word of it. Besides, he made three stops, and used three nags, harnessed random-tandem. I shan’t make but two. We can certainly go farther than Croydon with this pair of steppers I have got, though I shan’t push ‘em all the way to Horley.”
    Already at Croydon the team had slowed noticeably, so he changed his mind. “The Prince certainly did not have to wait half an hour for them to change his cattle,” he fumed, after we had waited perhaps five minutes for the stableboys to attend us.
    At Horley, they were faster. “Wouldn’t you know when this pest of a girl stops to water herself, they would get us changed in three minutes flat,” he grouched. There was a deal more of grouching on the next lap. Not only had they dared to palm a lame jade off on him, but Perdita, accustomed to every luxury, insisted she must stop for something to eat, after having had a drink at Horley.
    “Dash it, we might as well have a proper luncheon, or she will want to stop again after half a mile. I don’t see why you didn’t bring a lunch with you, if you meant to eat every step of the way.”
    I must say, John ate more than the rest of us, once the stop was actually made. The beefsteak he declared to be “quite tolerable,” while the fowl were “decent.” An apple tart too was considered “worth eating.” This faint praise seemed to be the style with the fashionable bucks this year. With his eyes fairly popping out of his head, he claimed a certain female encountered at the inn door to be “passable.” He stopped to have a few words with an acquaintance as we drove back onto the road, dense with traffic now. The friend said, in no low tone, that his friend was "not unattractive,” and he would not resent being presented to her.
    “Are you taking her to Grifford’s?” he went on to ask.
    “Lord no! Do you take me for a Johnnie Raw, to be taking an Incomparable to Bromley Hall, when the whole purpose of the party is to nab a parti for Millie? They’d have my eyes gouged out and fed to the hounds.”
    “I hear Tony Hall has popped the question. Daresay the Griffords are sorry they went to the bother of tossing the do,” the young fellow announced, with a sly smile to John.
    The effect this speech had on John was remarkable. He had described Millicent Grifford as a squinter and an ugly patch, which hardly indicated an interest in her. These descriptions went beyond faint praise to downright denigration. Why then was he white around the lips, and abusing Tony Hall for a lilylivered mawworm?
    On this cheery note, we rolled back on the road. Speed was impossible with the number of carriages wheeling to and fro. It was quite alarming to see the congestion. One would think every cottager along the way had set up a carriage, and taken it out for a spin.
    The afternoon was half gone by the time we reached Brighton. “Where does this Maude woman live?” John demanded, his temper frayed well beyond civility.
    “The Steyne. Is it a decent neighborhood?” Perdita asked.
    “Yes, by Jove, very decent,” he allowed, conferring its new meaning on the word, to judge by his accent. It was much better than decent, as we saw when we reached it. All the crack, with a view even of the Prince Regent’s Pavilion glowing in the distance, lending a fairy-tale enchantment to the scene. “She ain't hiring that place at less than thirty guineas a week,” he told us. “Must be rich as a nabob.”
    “She is not hiring it at all. She owns it,” Perdita told him. “And when she dies, she is leaving it to me. She told Mama so."
    In my own view, it was a great pity she was not leaving it to her more needy cousin, Miss Greenwood. Would it not be marvelous to own a house in Brighton? But that is always the way; those who have, keep getting and getting and getting. But Perdita was her niece, while I was a lesser relative.
    “Is she, by Jove?” John asked. “Millie Grifford don’t own any fine home in