Mulliner Nights Read Online Free Page B

want to have a little chat with
my friend, my dear old friend, Mulliner here. Might I have a word in private
with you, Mr Mulliner?’
    There was
silence between the two men until they had reached a corner of the terrace out
of earshot of the library window. Then Lord Brangbolton cleared his throat.
    ‘Mulliner,’ he
began, ‘or, rather — what is your Christian name?’
    ‘Adrian.’
    ‘Adrian, my
dear fellow,’ said Lord Brangbolton, ‘my memory is not what it should be, but I
seem to have a distinct recollection that, when I was in my bath before dinner,
you said something about wanting to marry my daughter Millicent.’
    ‘I did,’
replied Adrian. ‘And, if your objections to me as a Suitor were mainly
financial, let me assure you that, since we last spoke, I have become a wealthy
man.’
    ‘I never had
any objections to you, Adrian, financial or otherwise,’ said Lord Brangbolton,
patting his arm affectionately. ‘I have always felt that the man my daughter
married ought to be a fine, warm-hearted young fellow like you. For you,
Adrian,’ he proceeded, ‘are essentially warm-hearted. You would never dream of
distressing a father-in-law by mentioning any… any little… well, in short,
I saw from your smile in there that you had noticed that I was introducing into
that game of Blind Hooky — or, rather, Persian Monarchs — certain little —
shall I say variations, designed to give it additional interest and excitement,
and I feel sure that you would scorn to embarrass a father-in-law by… Well,
to cut a long story short, my boy, take Millicent and with her a father’s
blessing.’
    He extended
his hand. Adrian clasped it warmly.
    ‘I am the
happiest man in the world,’ he said, smiling.
    Lord
Brangbolton winced.
    ‘Do you mind
not doing that?’ he said.
    ‘I only
smiled,’ said Adrian.
    ‘I know,’ said
Lord Brangbolton.
     
    Little remains
to be told. Adrian and Millicent were married three months later at a
fashionable West End church. All Society was there. The presents were both
numerous and costly, and the bride looked charming. The service was conducted
by the Very Reverend the Dean of Bittlesham.
    It was in the
vestry afterwards, as Adrian looked at Millicent and seemed to realize for the
first time that all his troubles were over and that this lovely girl was indeed
his, for better or worse, that a full sense of his happiness swept over the
young man.
    All through
the ceremony he had been grave, as befitted a man at the most serious point of
his career. But now, fizzing as if with some spiritual yeast, he clasped her in
his arms and over her shoulder his face broke into a quick smile.
    He found
himself looking into the eyes of the Dean of Bittlesham. A moment later he felt
a tap on his arm.
    ‘Might I have
a word with you in private, Mr Mulliner?’ said the Dean in a low voice.

 
     
     
    2 THE STORY OF WEBSTER
     
     
     
     
     
    ‘C ats
are not dogs!’
    There is only
one place where you can hear good things like that thrown off quite casually in
the general run of conversation, and that is the bar-parlour of the Angler’s
Rest. It was there, as we sat grouped about the fire, that a thoughtful Pint of
Bitter had made the statement just recorded.
    Although the
talk up to this point had been dealing with Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, we
readily adjusted our minds to cope with the new topic. Regular attendance at
the nightly sessions over which Mr Mulliner presides with such unfailing
dignity and geniality tends to produce mental nimbleness. In our little circle
I have known an argument on the Final Destination of the Soul to change inside
forty seconds into one concerning the best method of preserving the juiciness
of bacon fat.
    ‘Cats,’
proceeded the Pint of Bitter, ‘are selfish. A man waits on a cat hand and foot
for weeks, humouring its lightest whim, and then it goes and leaves him flat
because it has found a place down the road where the fish is more