Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

hand. There seemed to be about a dozen people in the room, in evening clothes – there was the King, portly but immaculate, seated by the fire, puffing on a cigarette, with Mrs Keppel at his elbow, a Junoesque figure in crimson, with diamonds in her hair and sparkling on her celebrated bosom; Soveral was attracting her attention. Mr Franklin recognised some of the faces from the hunt – the stringy man, the stout man of whom he thought as “Colonel Dammit”, the scowling Lacy, various ladies, but none of them comparable with Peggy or Mrs Keppel. Beside him he was aware that Peggy was bobbing a slight curtsey; he forced himself to make a forward inclination which might pass for a bow if a bow was in order and wouldn’t be noticed if it was not. Then the small eyes were on him, and the other guests were willing him magnetically towards the fireplace.

      “Ah, Franklin. Good evening to you.” Majesty was nodding. “Brought any more foxes?” There was polite laughter, and the King went on: “Now, you’re American – you can tell us – what do they say over there about votes for women?”

      He isn’t smiling, thought Mr Franklin, but he’s looking affable. Everyone else was watching him, the men attentive, the women with frozen smiles, and he sensed the nervous under-current of the pre-prandial drawing-room. What to say? – he suddenly remembered the militant young lady outside the Waldorf.

      “Well, sir, that depends.” His voice was unnaturally loud, and he made a conscious effort to speak normally. “If they’re single men, I guess they know better than to say anything – and if they’re married men, they don’t get much chance.”

      In that moment he knew how a comedian feels when his first joke draws a roar from the pit; in fact, he was astonished that his fairly feeble response made the King chuckle, the ladies titter, and the gentlemen laugh aloud. God, he thought, do they expect me to be the droll Yankee? Well, I can’t do it – and at that moment he was rescued by an exclamation of delight from Mrs Keppel; she was turning from Soveral to stoop so that the King could examine the open box in her hands: Mr Franklin felt a tremor of anxiety at having his present submitted for the royal inspection.

      “Look what Mr Franklin has brought me! Oh, they’re simply beautiful! How very, very kind of you, Mr Franklin!” The green eyes were glowing with genuine delight as she glanced up at him. “They’re silver – how absolutely gorgeous!”

      “What on earth are they?” demanded the King.

      “They’re spurs, sir,” Mr Franklin explained. “Mexican spurs – the kind the vaqueros use – Mexican cattlemen, that is.”

      He reflected that he hadn’t hesitated a moment that evening when, remembering Soveral’s suggestion of a gift, he had hit on the notion of presenting his spurs to Mrs Keppel. They were silver, in fact, and he had spent twenty minutes, between shaving and putting on his shirt, in polishing them fiercely in the kitchen. They had come from that small collection of personal belongings in his valise, because somehow he had felt that a present with the giver’s brand of ownership on it was better than anything bought – and he had been in no position to buy anything, anyway; Laker’s stores and the Castle Lancing dairy carrying only a limited supply of trinkets for the haut monde, as Thornhill remarked.

      “Extraordinary things.” The King had lifted one of the spurs from the box, and was spinning its big rowel which tinkled musically as it moved. “Care to go hunting in those, Arlesdon?”

      “Rather not, sir. Bit conspicuous, I fancy.” There were murmurs of agreement, and Colonel Dammit remarked that they were barbarous-lookin’ things; Peggy said:

      “Aren’t they dreadfully cruel – to the horse, I mean?”

      “Not as cruel as the ones you were wearing today,” said Mr Franklin. “Those big rowels are blunt; they won’t even dent a horse’s hide.”

      “Well, I shall certainly wear them, and they will make beautiful knick-knacks of decoration,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling warmly at Mr Franklin. The King was watching him curiously.

      “You’ve been in Mexico? What were you doing there?”

      Mr Franklin paused, in that distinguished little assembly, and then said with a smile: “Well, sir, I was what they call ‘on the prod’; just moving from place to place, doing this and that; punching cattle – that’s driving them, you know –”

      “I know,” said the King. “But you’re not a cow-hand.”

      “Why, no, sir. Most of the time, when my partner and I could raise the stake, we went prospecting – mining for silver, gold, in the sierras.”

      “Extraordinary. A miner forty-niner, eh?” The King sat back in his chair. “May I have one of your cigarettes?”

      Mr Franklin realized that quite unconsciously he had drawn his case from his pocket, and was turning it between his fingers. He hastened to open it; the King took the case and examined its contents.

      “What’s this? ‘Colonel Bogey’? Don’t know them.” He put one between his lips, closed the case and examined it, before returning it.

      “And then – you struck it rich? Isn’t that the expression?” He looked directly at Mr Franklin while Mrs Keppel lighted the cigarette for him.

      “Not too badly, sir. We paid for our trip.”

      “And for a trip to England?” The King puffed, coughed, and peered at the cigarette.

      “Why, yes, sir. My family was English, a long time back.”

      “Yes – Soveral was telling me you’ve brought a house. Now, most of our American visitors ‘do’ the sights, buy up Bond Street, take all the best shooting, and marry into the House of Lords.” The King coughed and chuckled. “Can’t blame the peers – marrying rich Americans is about all they’ll be able to do if Mr Lloyd George has his way. Eh, Halford? But –” to Mr Franklin again “– you mean to stay, I gather?”

      “I believe so, sir.”

      “Remarkable.” The King coughed again, and regarded his cigarette. “Alice, you may stop rebuking me; I shall never smoke cigarettes again.”

      “Never, sir!” Mrs Keppel made a pretty grimace of mock surprise. “I can’t believe that!”

      “True, though.” The King replaced his cigarette, wheezing. “I shall cease smoking cigarettes, and smoke only ‘Colonel Bogeys’. I’m not sure what they are, but they’re certainly not cigarettes. Eh, Franklin?”

      Mr Franklin smiled apologetically amidst the polite laughter, and the King went on:

      “Do any hunting in Mexico?”

      “Hardly, sir. But I have hunted in the Rocky Mountains.”

      “Someone got a grizzly bear in his luncheon basket that time, did he?” The little eyes screwed up in royal mirth, the others applauded dutifully, and his majesty went on to say that that reminded him, what about dinner?

      Sir Charles Clayton had been turning anxious glances towards the door for five minutes; Peggy had vanished, presumably to see what was happening in the kitchen. At this reminder Sir Charles looked wretched and muttered an apology, Mrs Keppel covered the embarrassed silence with a bright remark, and the King sat back, grumbling quietly. Mr Franklin, from his place by the mantelpiece, observed the looks that were being exchanged among the guests, marvelled inwardly at the curious atmosphere which, he supposed, must surround royalty even in this democratic age, and decided it was nothing to do with him. Should he offer the King another cigarette? – probably better not; the portly figure had disgruntlement written in every line of it now, and even Mrs Keppel was looking anxious. Clayton, who had aged five years in as many minutes, muttered another apology and fled from the room; there were a few muted whispers, a stifled laugh, and a growl from the King. The minutes ticked by; Mr Franklin wondered if he should offer conversation, but was restrained by a vague sense that one didn’t speak in the presence of royalty until spoken to. He made the most of his time by examining the King surreptitiously: how old was he? Around seventy, and in some ways he looked