felicitations on this notable occasion. I had scarcely hoped for such a warm welcome in the midst of your friends, except that you are always so particularly generous.” Ever at a loss at how to react properly to such unwelcome insinuations, Sophie murmured something unintelligible in reply and was relieved when Tony appeared at her elbow.
“Good day to you, Mr. Rollo,” he said heartily. “What a delightful surprise to see you again.” His whole face radiated true bonhomie, and the goodwill of his smile completely overcame the unflattering implication of his words. Mr. Rollo was overcome by the distinction.
“Farnham, my dear fellow, the pleasure is all mine,” he protested. Then looking Tony over admiringly he added, “I say, I do like the cut of your coat. Who suffers?”
Tony’s smile flickered briefly, but then reappeared slightly altered, giving the impression that Mr. Rollo had somehow fulfilled his dearest expectations. “No one,” he said bluntly. “You see, Rollo, I pay my tailor.” He waited for his words to sink in, but his listener took no notice.
“Pay him?” he asked laughing incredulously. “Why, whatever for? Mine will clothe me completely merely for the honour of doing so. He receives considerable business as a result of my mentioning his name, you see. It is a beautiful arrangement. You should try it. Certainly with your sporting reputation you could escape a dun for months at a time.”
Sophie thought that Tony’s smile was beginning to show signs of strain, but his attention to Mr. Rollo was undiminished. “It is a peculiar particularity of mine, I suppose. I rather like to pay the tradesmen who render me their good service.”
Rollo looked momentarily perplexed, but soon a light of comprehension dawned on his face. “Ah, I get it, old fellow. Pay the ones who matter the most. I do that myself. With me, it’s my wine merchant. The beggar threatens to cut me off if his bill isn’t the first one settled. Most unpleasant, but I cannot afford to do without him. I understand completely.” He grimaced sympathetically as he recalled the strident complaints of his wine merchant. Tony grinned broadly, but Sophie noted that his eyes lacked their customary warmth.
Sir John joined them at that moment and reminded Mr. Rollo that he had promised a special surprise for Sophie and that the family was anxiously awaiting his pleasure. That gentleman, recalled to the occasion, smirked at Sophie suggestively and withdrew from his pocket a piece of parchment paper which had been rolled up elegantly and tied with a pink ribbon.
“Ah, yes, Miss Corby. Here it is, as I promised your father. I can see you were just as expectant as he said you would be, and I hope you will not be disappointed in my efforts. It is an ode in honour of your birthday and, if you will permit, I shall read it before the assembled company.”
Sophie flushed with annoyance. No one had ever written a poem for her, and certainly no one had ever read one to her in public. She anticipated an uncomfortable few minutes, but she could not refuse her guest’s gesture. Nodding her head and thanking Mr. Rollo politely, she took a chair while her father called the attention of the others to Mr. Rollo’s imminent performance. Tony took a place behind Sophie’s chair and folded his arms in expectation of some private delight.
The company were soon gathered in a rough semicircle about the parlour with Mr. Rollo placed in the centre. He waited, still smirking, for their voices to die down and was not at all offended by a shy titter from an elderly romantic in the audience. Once they were quieted, he untied the pink ribbon, unrolled the small parchment and cleared his throat before beginning.
“To Miss Corby, In Honour of Her Birthday,” he read, looking up one last time to assure himself of their attention. Then he resumed in a more projecting tone.
“ ‘All hail’ rings forth this glorious morn’ In honour of Miss
“Good day to you, Mr. Rollo,” he said heartily. “What a delightful surprise to see you again.” His whole face radiated true bonhomie, and the goodwill of his smile completely overcame the unflattering implication of his words. Mr. Rollo was overcome by the distinction.
“Farnham, my dear fellow, the pleasure is all mine,” he protested. Then looking Tony over admiringly he added, “I say, I do like the cut of your coat. Who suffers?”
Tony’s smile flickered briefly, but then reappeared slightly altered, giving the impression that Mr. Rollo had somehow fulfilled his dearest expectations. “No one,” he said bluntly. “You see, Rollo, I pay my tailor.” He waited for his words to sink in, but his listener took no notice.
“Pay him?” he asked laughing incredulously. “Why, whatever for? Mine will clothe me completely merely for the honour of doing so. He receives considerable business as a result of my mentioning his name, you see. It is a beautiful arrangement. You should try it. Certainly with your sporting reputation you could escape a dun for months at a time.”
Sophie thought that Tony’s smile was beginning to show signs of strain, but his attention to Mr. Rollo was undiminished. “It is a peculiar particularity of mine, I suppose. I rather like to pay the tradesmen who render me their good service.”
Rollo looked momentarily perplexed, but soon a light of comprehension dawned on his face. “Ah, I get it, old fellow. Pay the ones who matter the most. I do that myself. With me, it’s my wine merchant. The beggar threatens to cut me off if his bill isn’t the first one settled. Most unpleasant, but I cannot afford to do without him. I understand completely.” He grimaced sympathetically as he recalled the strident complaints of his wine merchant. Tony grinned broadly, but Sophie noted that his eyes lacked their customary warmth.
Sir John joined them at that moment and reminded Mr. Rollo that he had promised a special surprise for Sophie and that the family was anxiously awaiting his pleasure. That gentleman, recalled to the occasion, smirked at Sophie suggestively and withdrew from his pocket a piece of parchment paper which had been rolled up elegantly and tied with a pink ribbon.
“Ah, yes, Miss Corby. Here it is, as I promised your father. I can see you were just as expectant as he said you would be, and I hope you will not be disappointed in my efforts. It is an ode in honour of your birthday and, if you will permit, I shall read it before the assembled company.”
Sophie flushed with annoyance. No one had ever written a poem for her, and certainly no one had ever read one to her in public. She anticipated an uncomfortable few minutes, but she could not refuse her guest’s gesture. Nodding her head and thanking Mr. Rollo politely, she took a chair while her father called the attention of the others to Mr. Rollo’s imminent performance. Tony took a place behind Sophie’s chair and folded his arms in expectation of some private delight.
The company were soon gathered in a rough semicircle about the parlour with Mr. Rollo placed in the centre. He waited, still smirking, for their voices to die down and was not at all offended by a shy titter from an elderly romantic in the audience. Once they were quieted, he untied the pink ribbon, unrolled the small parchment and cleared his throat before beginning.
“To Miss Corby, In Honour of Her Birthday,” he read, looking up one last time to assure himself of their attention. Then he resumed in a more projecting tone.
“ ‘All hail’ rings forth this glorious morn’ In honour of Miss
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