Evening Star Newspaper, September 27, 1936, Page 76

4 — of a sort; he is not clean-shaven — I con- cede that —but fine? Pooh! Ridiculous! Never heard such nonsense in my life.” He turned pettishly away, and so hurt and offended was his manner that Brancepeth had no heart to continue the conversation. Mut- tering something about having forgotten his handkerchief, he sidled from the room and hung about on the landing outside. And pres- ently Muriel came tripping down the stairs, looking more beautiful than ever. She seemed delighted to see him. “Hullo, Brancepeth, you old bounder. What are you doing parked on the stairs? Why aren’t you in the drawing room?”’ Brancepeth lowered his voice. ‘“There’s a hairy bird in there who wasn’t any too matey. I thought it must be your father and accosted him as such, and he got extraordinarily peev- ish. He seemed to resent my saying that I had heard your father had a fine moustache.” The girl laughed. “Golly! You put your foot in it properly. Old Potter’s madly jealous of Father’s moustache. That was Sir Preston Potter of Wapleigh Towers, one of our better- known local Barts. He and his son are staying here.” She broke off to address the butler, a kindly, silver-haired old man who at this moment mounted the stairs. “Hullo, Phipps, are you ambling up to announce the tea and shrimps? You're a bit early. I don’t think Father and Mr. Potter are down yet. Ah, here’s Father,” she said, as a brilliantly mous- tached man of middle age appeared. “Father, this is Mr. Mulliner.” Brancepeth eyed his host keenly as he shook hands, and his heart sank. He saw that THIS WEEK the task of committing this man to canvas was going to be a difficult one. The recent slurs of Sir Preston Potter had been entirely without justification. Lord Bromborough’s moustache was fully as lush as that which barred the public from getting a square view of the Baronet. It seemed to Brancepeth, in- deed, that the job before him was more one for a landscape artist than a portrait painter. Sir Preston Potter emerged from the draw- ing room, looked sneeringly at his rival. “You been clipping your moustache, Bromborough?"’ “Of course I have not been clipping my moustache,” replied Lord Bromborough shortly. It was only too plain that there was bad blood between the two men. “What makes you think I’'ve been clipping my moustache?”’ “I thought it had shrunk,” said Sir Preston Potter. “It looks very small to me, very small. Perhaps the moths have been at it.” Lord Bromborough quivered beneath the coarse insult, but his patrician breeding checked the hot reply which rose to his lips. He was a host. Controlling himself with a strong effort, he turned the conversation to the subject of early mangoldwurzels; and it was while he was speaking of these with eloquence and even fire that a young man with butter-colored hair came hurrymg down the stairs. “Buck up, Edwin,” said Munel impatient- ly. “What'’s the idea of keeping us all waiting like this?" “Oh, sorry,” said the young man. ‘So you ought to be. Well, now you're here, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Mulliner. He's come to paint Father's portrait, you know. Mr. Mulliner . . . Mr. Edwin Potter, my fiancé.” “Dinner is served,” said Phipps, the butler. It was in a sort of trance that my nephew, Brancepeth, sat through the meal which fol- lowed. He had had a severe shock. Few things are more calculated to jar an ardent lover and upset his poise than the sudden announce- ment by the girl he loves that she is engaged to somebody else. And in addition to suffering the keenest mental anguish, Brancepeth was | completely bewildered. It was not as if this Edwin Potter had been Clark Gable or somebody. Studying him closely, Brancepeth was unable to discern in him any of those qualities which win girls’ hearts. He had an ordinary, meaningless face, disfigured by an eyeglass, and was plainly a ninny of the first water. Brancepeth could make nothing of it. He resolved to get hold of Muriel at the earliest possible moment and institute a probe. It was not until next day before luncheon that he found an opportunity of doing so. His morning had been spent in making prelimi- nary sketches of her father. This task con- cluded, he came out into the garden and saw her reclining in a hammock slung between two trees at the edge of the large lawn. He made his way towards her with quick, nervous strides. He was feeling jaded and irritated. His first impressions of Lord Brom- borough had not misled him. Painting his portrait, he saw, was going to prove a severe test of his courage and strength. There seemed 8o little about Lord Bromborough's face for an artist to get hold of. It was as if he had been HE SAW HIMSELF STOOPING OVER THE HAMMOCK AND CLIPPING THE FAMOUS MOUSTACHE Mogazine s.r”ow‘ commissioned to depict a client who for rea: sons of his own insisted on lying hid behmd a haystack. His emotions lent acerbity to his voice as he uttered a preliminary “Hoy!” The girl sat up. “Oh, hullo,” she said. “Never mind the ‘Oh, hullo.’ I want an ex planation.” “What's puzzling you?” “This engagement of yours.” “‘Oh, that?” 5 “Yes, that. A nice surprise to spring on a chap! A jolly way of saying ‘Welcome to Rumpling Hall,’ T don’t think.” Brancepeth choked. “I came here thinking that you loved me...” “So I do.” “What!” “Madly. Devotedly.” “Then why the dickens do I find you be-| trothed to this blighted Potter?” Muriel sighed. “It’s the old, old story.” | “What's the old, old story?”’ “This is. It’s all so simple, if you'd only understand. I don’t suppose any girl ever worshipped a man as I worship you, Brance- peth, but Father hasn’t a bean — you know what it’s like owning land nowadays . . . Be- tween ourselves, while we're on the subject, I'd stipulate for a bit down m advance on that portrait, if I were you . Brancepeth understood “Is this Potter rot- ter rich?” “Rolling. Sir Preston was Potter’s Potted Table Delicacies.” There was a silence. “H'm,"” said Brancepeth. “Exactly. You see now. Oh, Brancepeth,” | said the girl, her voice trem- bling,*“why haven’t youmoney? i If only you had the merest pit- tance — enough for a flat in Mayfair and a little week-end | place in the country some- where and a couple of good cars and a villa in the South of France and a bit of trout fish- ing on some decent river, I would risk all for love. But as it is . . .”” Another silence fell. “What you ought to do,” said Muriel, “is invent some good animal for the movies. That’s where the money is. Look at Walt Disney.” Brancepeth started. It was as if she had read his thoughts. He had always held before him as the goal of his ambition the invention of some new comic animal for the motion pictures.* What he burned to do, as Vel- asquez would have burned to do if he had lived today, was to thinkofanother Mickey Mouse, then just sit back and watch the money roll in. “It isn’t so easy,” he said sadly. ““Have you tried?" . “‘Of course. I thought I had something with Hilda, the Hen, and Bertie, the Bandicoot, but nobody would look at them. I see now that they were lifeless, uninspired. I am a man who needs the direct inspiration.” » “Doesn’t Father suggestany- 1 thing to you?”’ x “No. I have studied your [ father, alert for the slightest | hint — "’ ¢ ‘“Walter, the Walrus?"” s ‘“No. Lord Bromborough # looks like a walrus, yes, but un- | fortunately not a funny wal- rus. That moustache of his is - majestic rather than diverting. ’ It arouses in the beholder a feeling of awe, such as one gets on first seeing the Pyramids. One senses the terrific effort be-, hind it. I suppose it must have taken a lifetime of incessant toil to produce a cascade like that?” ‘“Oh, no. Father hadn’t a moustache a few years ago. It was only when Sir Preston be- gan to grow one and rather flaunt it at him at District Council meetings that he buck- led down to it. But why,” de- manded the girl passionately, ‘‘are we wasting time talking about moustaches? Kiss me, Brancepeth. We have just time before lunch.” (Continved on page 13)