Geoffrey said some small smiling nothing, and passed on to a second effusive welcome--from his host, a man of restless eyes and heavy mouth.
"Barnett Q."--as his cronies called him--had made the best part of his millions out of biscuits, the balance from high finance. In his home-place Barnett Q. was genial and hospitable; but put a deal in his way, and he became on the instant keen, unscrupulous, inexorable, flint-hearted.
"It’s a real good pleasure to see you, Lord Geoffrey. If you don’t jolly some, you mustn’t blame the wife and me. This house is named Liberty Hall, and I guess it’s got to live up to its cognomen."
The dancing had started. It was already very like a whirlwind. Young folk, hot and flushed, were romping round like mad to the rhythm of a two-step. Geoffrey was caught in the riot. A demoiselle who giggled and called him Herbert seized his hand and began the gay canter. He threw himself into the spirit of the revel, neither pausing nor thinking till the band with a crashing finale stopped, and his partner had hurried him off to a refreshment-buffet.
There was perpetual laughter, peals of it now and then. Humour was cheap; mirth was easily aroused at that party. A man with a false nose was a great favourite, and when he suddenly startled a dowager and caused her wig to shift there were shrieks of delight. The catchwords of the streets were popular and appreciated in Liberty Hall. Champagne and cocktails shed a genial influence over everything. There was no lack of liquid wealth in that bountiful establishment.
June, while the dancing lasted, escaped to the gallery where the band was playing, and sat on the matted hair of a flautist, who forthwith went flat. Her thoughts for a while were far away in a night-world of green shadows.
"Hello, Season!" cried a puffy, sleek young man, clapping Geoffrey familiarly on the shoulder. "See my new mo. yesterday? I’m Harris, you know! Met you at Monty Dizzler’s."
"No, Mr. Harris, I fear I didn’t see the machine."
"Don’t call me Mister, Season! There’s no side between gentlemen, hey? She’s a beauty! Light, and as for power and speed--well, I’m no orator! Passed you in Sloane Street by Cadogan Square. You were with a specially nice little piece of frilling--girl with a hat all over her. Gave four-fifty for her--the mo. I mean. Don’t laugh. T’other side of Hounslow sent her along like blazes. The bobbies couldn’t get ready for me. Rushed past three of them--traps and all--like a greased eel, before they could doctor their watches. Nearly knocked over one cop. Ha! And not more than a mile further on went over a boy’s foot. No business playing in the roads, those kids! You should have heard him squeal. Talk of Wagner, and that rot! This is private between you and me, y’ know. Fortunately, the mo. made such a dust they couldn’t see my number. I--oh, if you don’t want to hear any more, you needn’t! Shirty dog! Just because he’s a duke’s son, gives himself airs. What’s a duke nowadays? Pauper rats! Hullo, Gertie; come and have some sup. Liberty Hall’s a rotter, but his cham’s worth drinking! Then I’ll take you home, little gell. You must see my new mo.----"