Alicia is determined to have her wedding perfect down to the last guest, and I – I spoiled it! So she decided to make a silk purse out of Missy Wright the sow’s ear. Well, thank you very much, but I’d rather be my own sow’s ear in all its natural homeliness than any silk purse of Alicia’s making! And so I shall tell her!”
And so indeed she did tell her, the very next day. Though Drusilla had crept out in the dead of night armed with a lamp, the dress and hat had disappeared from their vile resting place, and she never saw them again; nor did she ever discover what had happened to them, for no one who knew remembered to tell her, so shocking were the other events of that memorable Friday morning in the Marshall residence.
Missy arrived at the front door of Mon Repos about ten o’clock, hampered by a large and exceedingly well wrapped parcel which she carried rather gingerly by a string loop. Had the butler any idea of the consternation already reigning in the small drawing room, it is doubtful whether Missy would have got any further than the front stoop, but luckily the butler did not have any idea, and so was able to contribute his mite to the general atmosphere of disaster.
The small drawing room, not really small, was nonetheless rather full of very large people when Missy sidled round the door with her parcel on its string. Aunt Aurelia was there, and Uncle Edmund, and Alicia, and Ted and Randolph, and the third Sir William, and his son and heir, Little Willie; Lady Billy was not there, as she was assisting a mare to foal.
“I don’t understand it!” Edmund Marshall was saying as Missy gave the butler a smile and a gesture which indicated she would announce herself as soon as maybe. “I just don’t understand it! How could so many shares escape us? How? And who the hell sold them and who the hell bought them?”
“As far as my agents can gather,” said the third Sir William, “every share not held by a Hurlingford proper was bought up for many times its actual value, and then the mystery buyer began to make inroads on shares held by Hurlingfords. How or when or why I don’t know, but he managed to discover every Hurlingford in need of money and every Hurlingford not tied to Byron, and he made offers no one could refuse.”
“It’s ridiculous!” cried Ted. “For the sort of money he’s been paying, there’s absolutely no way he can ever recoup his outlay. I mean, the Byron Bottle Company is a very nice little enterprise, but it’s not gold we’re taking out of the ground, nor is it the elixir of life! Yet the prices he’s been paying are the sort of prices a speculator might pay on receipt of an infallible tip that the ground is solid gold.”
“I agree with all that,” said Sir William, “but I can’t give you an answer, because I just don’t know it.”
“Are we reduced to minority shareholders, Uncle Billy, is that what you’re trying to say?” asked Alicia, who was fully acquainted with the practices and terminology of the business world – and a not inconsiderable shareholder in the Byron Bottle Company herself, since Chez Chapeau Alicia had put capital in her hands and an acquisitive nature had tempted her into the safer realms of speculation.
“Good God, no, not yet!” cried Sir William; then, with less confidence, he added, “However, I admit it’s going to be touch and go unless we can either stem the tide of shares we’re losing, or buy more ourselves.”
“Aren’t there any stray small shareholders living here in Byron whom we can get to first?” asked Randolph.
“A few, Hurlingfords on the distaff side mostly, and two or three of the old maids who accidentally inherited shares they weren’t really entitled to. Naturally they’ve never been paid a dividend.”
“How did you manage that, Uncle Billy?” asked Randolph.
Sir William snorted. “What do they know about shares, silly old biddies like Cornelia and Julia and Octavia? I didn’t want them
And so indeed she did tell her, the very next day. Though Drusilla had crept out in the dead of night armed with a lamp, the dress and hat had disappeared from their vile resting place, and she never saw them again; nor did she ever discover what had happened to them, for no one who knew remembered to tell her, so shocking were the other events of that memorable Friday morning in the Marshall residence.
Missy arrived at the front door of Mon Repos about ten o’clock, hampered by a large and exceedingly well wrapped parcel which she carried rather gingerly by a string loop. Had the butler any idea of the consternation already reigning in the small drawing room, it is doubtful whether Missy would have got any further than the front stoop, but luckily the butler did not have any idea, and so was able to contribute his mite to the general atmosphere of disaster.
The small drawing room, not really small, was nonetheless rather full of very large people when Missy sidled round the door with her parcel on its string. Aunt Aurelia was there, and Uncle Edmund, and Alicia, and Ted and Randolph, and the third Sir William, and his son and heir, Little Willie; Lady Billy was not there, as she was assisting a mare to foal.
“I don’t understand it!” Edmund Marshall was saying as Missy gave the butler a smile and a gesture which indicated she would announce herself as soon as maybe. “I just don’t understand it! How could so many shares escape us? How? And who the hell sold them and who the hell bought them?”
“As far as my agents can gather,” said the third Sir William, “every share not held by a Hurlingford proper was bought up for many times its actual value, and then the mystery buyer began to make inroads on shares held by Hurlingfords. How or when or why I don’t know, but he managed to discover every Hurlingford in need of money and every Hurlingford not tied to Byron, and he made offers no one could refuse.”
“It’s ridiculous!” cried Ted. “For the sort of money he’s been paying, there’s absolutely no way he can ever recoup his outlay. I mean, the Byron Bottle Company is a very nice little enterprise, but it’s not gold we’re taking out of the ground, nor is it the elixir of life! Yet the prices he’s been paying are the sort of prices a speculator might pay on receipt of an infallible tip that the ground is solid gold.”
“I agree with all that,” said Sir William, “but I can’t give you an answer, because I just don’t know it.”
“Are we reduced to minority shareholders, Uncle Billy, is that what you’re trying to say?” asked Alicia, who was fully acquainted with the practices and terminology of the business world – and a not inconsiderable shareholder in the Byron Bottle Company herself, since Chez Chapeau Alicia had put capital in her hands and an acquisitive nature had tempted her into the safer realms of speculation.
“Good God, no, not yet!” cried Sir William; then, with less confidence, he added, “However, I admit it’s going to be touch and go unless we can either stem the tide of shares we’re losing, or buy more ourselves.”
“Aren’t there any stray small shareholders living here in Byron whom we can get to first?” asked Randolph.
“A few, Hurlingfords on the distaff side mostly, and two or three of the old maids who accidentally inherited shares they weren’t really entitled to. Naturally they’ve never been paid a dividend.”
“How did you manage that, Uncle Billy?” asked Randolph.
Sir William snorted. “What do they know about shares, silly old biddies like Cornelia and Julia and Octavia? I didn’t want them
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