The very footmen, of whom there were ten, entered into the spirit of this breathless competition. All through Sunday the stables rang with “Three to two on Mr. Fooliss!” or “Even bobs on the filly!”
Gav and Bladge--the duet of the day! The thought gave Lady Jordan a comforting sense of security as she lay awake in bed in the early hours of Monday morning, listening to the tea-trays racing in the moonlight down the West terrace steps. Was she not their _entremettrice_ and _impresaria_? It had cost her years of effort, but it could only be counted a triumph for her diligence. To improve her status, had she not diligently taken a house in Chelsea (a part of London she particularly disliked, having been brought up to believe that it lay low)? Had she not organized endless concerts there (she was unhappily tone-deaf)? Had she not brought numberless cubist pictures (her real taste was for Marcus Stone)? She had.
But now she had achieved! And she fell asleep deliciously, to dream of living once more on the salubrious heights to the North of the Park, of buying another Farquharson, of playing _vingt-et-un_ in the evening. She was secure at last: no post-card of invitation but would evoke enthusiastic acceptance, no satire but would add to her reputation. After many years, Lady Jordan was entering the Promised Land.
And by the time of his departure on Monday afternoon (he travelled to London with Sir Nicholas and the inevitable Miss Tropes) Gaveston knew that Fate had thrown his lines with Lady Blandula’s. _Coûte que coûte_, he must get her to Oxford next term! What a challenge of emancipation to fling at the callowness of the hidebound university! Lady Blandula Merris! A name to conjure with! Everyone knew it. Everyone knew her fame and her infame. But only he knew her _au fond_--how mad-a-cap she was!
Hilary term was half-spent, and a chain of translucent May evenings enwreathed Malmaison Lodge with a beauty more fragrant and Fragonard than ever. With each successive sundown came a lingering breeze faintly susurrous in the clumps of lavender that leaned their slenderness against the honey-laden hollyhocks; nightjars and crickets chaffered and chattered in the acanthine capitals of the gazebo; and, far away, silent and argentine above the jagged ridge of Headington, the midsummer moon spilt magic from her tilted cup.