Nine CONCERNING MR. BASSINGTON-FFRENCH
Frankie lost no time in setting to work. She attacked her father that sameevening.
“Father,” she said, “do you know any Bassington-ffrenches?”
Lord Marchington, who was reading a political article, did not quite takein the question.
“It’s not the French so much as the Americans,” he said severely¹. “Allthis tomfoolery and conferences—wasting the nation’s time and money—”
Frankie abstracted her mind until Lord Marchington, running like arailway train along an accustomed line, came, as it were, to a halt at a sta-tion.
“The Bassington-ffrenches,” repeated Frankie.
“What about ’em?” said Lord Marchington.
Frankie didn’t know what about them. She made a statement, knowingwell enough that her father enjoyed contradiction.
“They’re a Yorkshire family, aren’t they?”
“Nonsense—Hampshire. There’s the Shropshire branch, of course, andthen there’s the Irish lot. Which are your friends?”
“I’m not sure,” said Frankie, accepting the implication of friendship withseveral unknown people.
“Not sure? What do you mean? You must be sure.”
“People drift about so nowadays,” said Frankie.
“Drift—drift—that’s about all they do. In my days we asked people. Thenone knew where one was—fellow said he was the Hampshire branch—very well, your grandmother married my second cousin. It made a link.”
“It must have been too sweet,” said Frankie, “But there really isn’t timefor genealogical and geographical² research nowadays.”
“No—you’ve no time nowadays for anything but drinking these poison-ous cocktails³.”
Lord Marchington gave a sudden yelp⁴ of pain as he moved his gouty leg,which some free imbibing⁵ of the family port had not improved.
“Are they well off?” asked Frankie.
“The Bassington-ffrenches? Couldn’t say. The Shropshire lot have beenhard hit, I believe—death duties, and one thing or another. One of theHampshire ones married an heiress. An American woman.”

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