Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
Franklin made his way downstairs thoughtfully, and was rather taken aback to find the King planted before the hall fireplace, smoking a cigar and talking to one of his equerries. He hailed the American genially.
“Morning, Franklin. Sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you, sir,” lied Mr Franklin gamely, wondering if he should inquire in kind. The King settled it for him.
“More than I did, then. Draughts seem to follow me about these days. Getting too old for all this gallivanting, sitting up to all hours getting fleeced by Yankee card-sharps, what?” He beamed over his cigar; for all his complaints about draughts, and the fact that he could not have had more than four hours’ sleep, he was looking remarkably spruce in his check breeches and jacket, hideously offset by his pink tie; his eye was clear and his face ruddy with health. Mr Franklin wondered how he did it.
“Hardly fleeced, sir,” said the equerry, warming Mr Franklin with his smile. “Soveral complains that you and Mr Franklin gave him a very rough passage indeed.”
“We’ll give him worse than that, you’ll see. Eh, Franklin? Now, look,” said his majesty, “you’ll come down and see us at Sandringham next month – what’s the date of that, Halford? Ne’er mind; let Franklin know in good time. We’ll have some shooting, and plenty of time for bridge and so on. You’ll enjoy it; nothing like this –” and his majesty frowned and waved his cigar at their surroundings with a deprecating gesture that would have given Sir Charles Clayton heart failure. “Small party, good fun – some interesting people for you. You ought to meet them, get to know your way about.” The little eyes twinkled kindly, and Mr Franklin was amazed that he could ever have thought this charming old gentleman spoiled or ill-tempered. “We’ll have Jackie Fisher down, perhaps Churchill, we’ll see. Which reminds me – excuse me, Franklin; no, don’t go.” The King turned to his aide. “Jackie ought to know that he has to pack up at last; if he wants to do it gracefully, Asquith’ll give him a title. But one way or the other, he’s got to go. It’s up to him. Where the devil,” his majesty resumed, “is Alice? Women! Is there any one of ’em who can be on time? Had your breakfast yet, Franklin?”
“No, sir – I shall in a moment.” Mr Franklin was looking for words. “I thank you for inviting me next month; I’ll be delighted –” He wasn’t sure that he would be, but it had to be said.
“My dear chap! Now, go and get your breakfast before the wolves descend. I gather there are young people whom we don’t know about.” Mr Franklin nodded gravely. “I shan’t see you again,” added the King, “but we look forward to next month.”
Mr Franklin had a feeling of being dismissed from audience, and wondered if he should back across the hall to the dining-room. Common sense triumphed in a slight bow before he turned away; as he reached the opposite door the King called: “Oh, Franklin!”, adding in a conspiratorial growl which echoed round the hall: “Don’t touch the haddock. Ghastly.”
Thus advised, Mr Franklin went in to breakfast, which in its way was the biggest ordeal he had struck yet. There were four or five people round the table – Arlesdon, Lady Dalston, Ponsonby, Smith, someone else; they called “Good morning!” loudly, and he went on to help himself from the buffet (Thornhill had briefed him on the etiquette of country-house breakfast). Being in no condition to attempt a cooked meal, he ignored the bacon, eggs, ham, kidneys, chops, and condemned haddock beneath the silver covers, contenting himself with fruit, toast and coffee, and sliding quietly into a seat beside Lady Dalston. She smiled automatically and made the usual formal enquiries before rejoining the conversation at large, which was well over Mr Franklin’s head – some society children’s party which was to take place at the Savoy, shooting at Quiddenham the following week, the new roller-skating craze. Mr Franklin concentrated on not crunching his toast, and studied the marmalade dish; once, Lady Dalston tried to draw him into the conversation by asking if he intended to visit Scotland before Christmas; she caught him with a mouthful of toast and apple, and he risked serious injury getting it down while she regarded him with cool interest; the hoarse “No” with which he eventually succeeded in answering her seemed a poor return for her attention.
He was pondering the curious fact that the informality of breakfast was infinitely more trying than the formality of dinner had been when they all got up and went out – the King was leaving. Mr Franklin, cup poised, supposed that etiquette demanded that he should go out, too, to speed the departing monarch, and then thought, the hell with it, he can make it without me. So he lingered, in solitary enjoyment, over his toast and coffee, and wished he hadn’t, for the King’s departure evidently meant that the house was now free for the younger set, and presently he was invaded by a chattering horde who swarmed round the covers, loaded their plates, shouted and squealed at each other, and turned the quiet morning-room into something like a juvenile picnic.
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