Ata quarter to seven we were still in what I should describe as the throes. I daresay that sentence is not perfect English, but it is exactly what I mean; and, so long as you have that, what does it matter?
Jane had made such a mess of her crying, and I had found it so difficult to make out what the ridiculous creature was crying about; but it seemed that her young man had spoken to her with freezing coldness that very afternoon, and that, combined with the excitement of the discovery that, as she phrased it, I had put mamma’s and the girls’ noses “out of joint,” by walking off with their five young men—though you could hardly describe Major Tibbet as young—and the agitation occasioned her by my kissing her all of a sudden, had brought her to such a stage that she had to do it. So she did it, although, with all my heart, I wish she hadn’t.
Her tears, and my efforts to understand their why and their wherefore, confused things dreadfully. Some of my things we got on inside out and some we did not get on at all. When we came to my hair, it was awful. We spent about twenty minutes in getting it into a mess, and half-an-hour in getting it out; Jane’s ideas on the subject of hairdressing were so original, and, when it came to the point, quite impracticable. At last, when it seemed to me that it must nearly all have been torn out by the roots, and my scalp was sore all over, we were confronted by the fact that we had about two seconds in which to make a satisfactory job of it.
So then I took it in hand myself. I had had enough of Jane. I just gave it a twirl and a twist, and jabbed six hairpins into it, and it had to do. Jane’s opinion of the result was not enthusiastic.
“Well, miss, I can’t say I think much of it—that I can’t. Looks as if you’d tried to make as little of it as you possibly could. In fact, you’ve screwed it that tight, it seems as if you hadn’t hardly any hair at all.”
“When one comes to think of the handfuls you’ve pulled out, Jane——”
“Miss Norah! I have not pulled out handfuls! It’s not fair to talk like that—that it’s not.”
“Then half-handfuls, if you prefer it, Jane. Just look at that heap of hair upon my dressing-table; quite recently it was all upon my head.”
“I’m sure, miss, I’m very sorry. I never thought you’d take it like this. I didn’t mean——”
“That’s all right, Jane. What do a few hairs, more or less, matter? For goodness’ sake, don’t start crying again. Help me on with my bodice; and don’t try to induce me to put my right arm into the left sleeve.”
As I have said, at a quarter to seven, we were still in the throes. It was a few seconds before that time when there came a loud rat-tat at the hall door. I quite jumped.
“There they are!” I cried; “and I’m not ready!”
“That you certainly are not, miss; nor nearly.”
“I don’t know about nearly. I only have to be done up this side, and put something round my neck, and get my gloves on; and then I shall be ready.”
Jane surveyed me through her tear-dimmed eyes, screwing up her lips in a way she had.
“Well, miss, there’s ready and there’s ready. If I was going out to dine with five gentlemen, I shouldn’t think that I was nearly ready; not by a good deal, I shouldn’t. To me, considering, it don’t seem as if you had hardly got anything on.”
There came some more hammering at the door; apparently those gentlemen were impatient.
“It’s no good talking like that now. You must go down and let them in. I shall have to manage.”
Jane’s manner was a mixture of resignation and acidity.
“Very well, miss; as you please, miss. I’m sure I’ve done my best; I couldn’t do no more.”
I felt convinced of it as she retired. Indeed, I had rather she had done less. Scarcely had she disappeared than Audrey entered. I stared, expecting that she was going to favour me with a few candid criticisms. But no one could have been nicer.
“Well, child”—considering our relative sizes, the way in which they will persist in calling me child, is grotesque—“are you dressed for the great occasion? So Jane has been giving you the benefit of her assistance.”
There was a smile on her face which made me feel for Jane.
“It’s very good of her. She doesn’t seem to have much idea. She doesn’t pretend to be a lady’s maid; but she’s done her best.”
In a comprehensive sort of way, Audrey looked me up and down. I felt as if every one of my weak points was hitting her in the face.
“Candidly, Norah, you are a difficult child to dress. The mode and you will ever be at variance. You must have a mode of your own. You are like Michael Angelo’s statues—on the grand lines.”
“I don’t know why you need laugh at me. I can’t help it.”
“I’m not laughing. On the contrary, I’m not sure that if you were clothed, as you might be, that you wouldn’t be splendid.”
“Audrey!”
“But that is not an ideal dress for you; and you don’t seem as if you knew how to get into it, if it were. Come down to my room; let me add a touch or two to Jane’s.”
At that moment Jane returned.
“If you please, miss, them five gentlemen have come for you; and Mr Hammond’s compliments, and he hopes that you won’t keep them waiting.”
Audrey looked at her quickly.
“Did Mr Hammond send that message?”
“Yes, miss; them was his own words.”
Audrey turned to me, with a laugh that was half in earnest.
“If I were you, Norah, I should return a message to Mr Hammond to the effect that he need not wait.”
I hesitated, then spoke:
“Thank you, Jane; there is no message.”
When we got into Audrey’s room—she was awfully particular about keeping it all to herself, scarcely letting me inside it twice a year—I thought, as I always did, how pretty it was, especially compared to mine—she said something which took me aback.
“Norah, I want to ask you a favour.” I stared at her askance. “Don’t suffer these gentlemen to be impertinent.”
“As if I should! Do you think they’d dare?”
“Child, don’t blaze. I don’t know what has got into men’s heads to make them mad; but I wouldn’t allow them to act as if you took their madness for granted. That message of Mr Hammond’s was not a very pretty one.”
“I will make him smart for it.”
“Do. A little smarting does some men much good.”
Her slender fingers, moving about me here and there, worked wonders with my appearance. She lent me ribbons, laces, those odds and ends which a girl must have if she wants to be finished properly. And they were just the proper odds and ends, the delicate trifles which cost such lots of money. As I saw her handiwork in the looking-glass, I perceived that she was making me quite presentable.
“I should like to take down your hair and do it all over again; but I’m afraid there isn’t time.”
“I’m sure there isn’t. I don’t want to keep them waiting.”
“My dear, you’re inexperienced. Don’t allow yourself to be influenced by any consideration of that kind; especially after the message which Mr Hammond permitted himself to request Jane to deliver. With some men, the worse you treat them, the better they treat you. ‘’Tis true, ’tis pity; but pity ’tis, ’tis true.’ By the way, these gentlemen seem violently drawn towards you; are you equally drawn towards them?”
“Not I.”
“Not towards any one of them?”
“Not towards any one of them. Shall I tell you what I think of them? I think——”
“Ssh! I don’t think that, perhaps, you had better tell me what you think. It might be over—candid.” She smiled up at me in a way which made her look a perfect dream of loveliness. “Besides—they’re not all—ganders.”
“Basil Carter isn’t—at least, I never should have guessed it.”
“Nor I. It’s rather odd that we should be of the same mind upon that subject. There, now you look a little better; though, I tell you again, that you’re a difficult child to dress. Yet it might be worth one’s while to fashion for you a mode of your own. You are so—very splendid.”
“Audrey, I do wish that you wouldn’t laugh at me!”
“I repeat that I am not laughing. I don’t know, Norah O’Brady, if you are aware how excellent an opportunity you are about to have to show how badly you can behave. One girl—five men, each of them wishing the others were in Heaven. What a chance you’ll have of trampling on what they flatter themselves are their tenderest feelings. If you’re a sister of mine, trample on them, Norah, an you love me.”
“I’ll try.”
“At least, do try. Let me whisper in your ear. Above all, trample—with your heaviest tramp—on Basil Carter—not only on his feelings, but, if opportunity offers, on his very self. I’m much afraid that he’s the biggest gander of them all—and, Norah, I didn’t think so once.”
I cannottruthfully say that I felt exactly proud of myself as I marched down to the drawing-room. I met Eveleen coming up as I went down, and she looked flurried; then I met Lilian, and she looked more flurried still; and, lastly, at the foot of the stairs, mamma. Something told me that all three of them had been in the drawing-room to try to bring those men to a consciousness of shame. There was that in their bearing which hinted that they had not succeeded. Eveleen suggested a desire to shake me; Lilian an inclination to bite my nose off; and as for mamma, she received me in a state of fluster which spoke volumes.
“You understand, Norah, that I have forbidden you to disgrace me, and I forbid you again!”
I was just in a mood to melt, and had mamma adopted another tone, or even appealed to me to leave her Major Tibbet, I am nearly sure I should have melted. But when she spoke to me like that, of course, needles came out all over me, and I smiled as sweetly as I knew how.
“Disgrace you, mamma? Why it was not necessary to forbid me to do that. I am sure you have brought me up too carefully to think it.”
Somehow my soft answer did not seem to turn away mamma’s wrath.
“Don’t be impertinent, miss! I command you to go into that room and dismiss those men!”
“Certainly, mamma; if you will come with me.”
She wavered, apparently she had just gone through a little passage in which she had been worsted.
“I will come with you, but no nonsense, mind; without any unnecessary words you will dismiss them at once and finally.”
I was just about to open the drawing-room door for mamma to enter, when Audrey came flying down the staircase. It certainly did seem, judging by the very first words she uttered, that she had been listening over the banisters.
“Norah, stop! Mamma, don’t be unreasonable. Let her go!”
Mamma stared. “Let her go! Alone! With those five men! After the way in which they have behaved! Audrey, are you mad?”
“Really, mamma, to hear you talk one would think that none of us had ever been out with gentlemen alone. What harm will they do her? She’ll be as safe with them as she would with you. I’m sure they can be trusted. As the child says, she hasn’t had much fun; let her enjoy the streak that’s come her way. Now, Norah, in you go, and remember what I told you, trample on them for all you’re worth! And have a really good time, my dear! And, mamma, you come upstairs with me.”
She pulled me down to her, and kissed me. We were not a kissing family—most emphatically not among ourselves! And to be kissed by Audrey, at such a moment! It had almost the same effect on me which mine had on Jane; only fortunately I had more sense than she had, and could exercise some self-control.
Mamma went up the stairs with Audrey, as meek as a lamb—everybody gives in to Audrey—and I went into the drawing-room, conscious of a strong, and most unwonted disposition to be peacocky.
They rushed at me the moment I showed my nose inside the door—all five.
“You have kept us waiting,” began Mr Hammond. “I said at a quarter-to, sharp!”
“And with dinner ordered punctually at seven,” went on the Major. “And with fish which will resent an instant’s delay.”
I resolved to put a stop to that sort of thing at once. I waved them back with Audrey’s fan—she had lent me a beautiful black one, real lace. I felt equal to five thousand men at least, and quite capable of acting on the hint which she had dropped.
“Please don’t come so close. I don’t like being crowded.”
Mr Hammond proceeded to push the others back with his huge arms.
“Now, you fellows, you annoy Miss Norah!”
I caught his eye, and held it, in a fashion which, I fancy, caused him some slight embarrassment.
“Mr Hammond, you sent me a message by the maid.”
“A message? Really? Me? I may have done.”
“You expressed a desire that I should not keep you waiting. I do not wish to do so. Please don’t wait.”
“Miss Norah!—I—I don’t understand.”
“I say, please don’t wait. Shall I ask Mr Carter to ring for the maid to open the door?”
“Miss Norah!”
His jaw dropped open. He displayed such unmistakeable signs of confusion, as well as contrition, that I proceeded to forgive him, in my own way.
“I am not accustomed to being requested by gentlemen not to keep them waiting. Those whose acquaintance I care to have are only too glad to consider my convenience, they never dream of expecting me to consider theirs.”
It was a dreadful story. And a horrid thing to say as well. But Audrey’s words were in my ears, I was bent on trampling. I had been trampled on so long.
“So, if for any reason whatever you feel disposed to ask me to consider your convenience, pray say so at once, and Mr Carter will ring for the maid to open the door.”
Never was man more profusely apologetic. To see him cringing—it really amounted to cringing—was a novel sensation for me. Never had a man apologised to me before—at least, to the best of my recollection and belief.
“I am sure, Miss Norah, I beg ten thousand pardons. Nothing further from my mind than to consider myself, in any way; only too proud and happy to be allowed to consider you; quite a mistake if anything can have induced you to suppose the contrary. Fact is, I was thinking of the Major’s dinner.”
“The Major’s dinner? What about the Major’s dinner?”
“He ordered it at seven.”
“Did he? And how does that interest you?”
“It doesn’t—not at all!—not in the slightest!—not in the very least degree!—do assure you! Might I—might I venture to hope, Miss Norah, that you—you—you’ll do me the honour of accepting these few flowers?”
Thereupon they all came crowding round me again, each with a floral offering.
“Did I not ask you not to come too close? I do not care to be conscious of another person’s proximity.” They slunk back, like dogs before a whip. “I see, Mr Hammond, that you have camellias. I don’t like camellias. I think they’re vulgar. You might put them on the table. Nor do I care for stephanotis, I am obliged to you, Major Tibbet. Thank you, Mr Rumford, I have had some roses given me this afternoon, already. You might put them with the other flowers on the table. You are very good, Mr Purchase, but obviously Parma violets do not go with black. They suggest mourning. You can hardly wish me to go into mourning at the prospect of spending part of an evening with you. I am not sure, Mr Carter, that I care for lilies-of-the-valley either. They are not quite so bad as camellias, but they are a little wooden. Don’t you think so? Stay! Let me look at them. After all, they do go with black. Perhaps I will wear them, since there is nothing else to wear.”
Even in my then mood it did seem incredible that they should endure my impertinence—worse, my ingratitude—and never show a sign of resentment. But something seemed to tell me that I might say and do exactly what I pleased, and they would still crouch at my feet, ready to endure anything rather than that I should not notice them at all. I was beginning, already, to understand what it is which makes a woman love the sense of power, the consciousness of being able to do as she likes with men. As is the case, I have heard, with some beggars on horseback, I was disposed to ride my steed for all it was worth, with cruel and scandalous disregard of the possibility of the poor brute’s breaking down upon the road.
Pulling Mr Carter’s carefully-arranged little nosegay to pieces I tossed some of the lilies aside and pinned the rest against my bodice—the five watching me with a queer sort of speechlessness, which nearly moved me to laughter.
“Now, let me understand what the programme is for this evening. Aren’t we to have some dinner?”
Major Tibbet held both hands out in front of him as he replied:
“I have ordered dinner at the King’s Restaurant—a sumptuous dinner, Miss Norah—at seven—exactly! It is already a quarter past—it will be spoilt!”
“Will it? Then we will dine elsewhere.”
“Dine elsewhere?”
“Certainly. Where we are not likely to encounter black looks, and excuses, because we choose to be a little late.”
“But—I shall have to pay in any case.”
“Shall you? Mr Rumford, where do you propose that we shall dine?”
He displayed a feeling for his fellow of which I chose to show myself incapable.
“Well, Miss Norah, I gathered that the Major had arranged to dine at the King’s.”
“At seven. But we can’t eat a seven-o’clock dinner at half-past; we want to have something fit to eat. Have you nothing, Mr Hammond, to suggest?”
“I suggest, Miss Norah, what you suggest—absolutely. Entirely in your hands—only too delighted.”
“And you, Mr Purchase, what do you say?”
“I would remind you, Miss Norah, that you accepted Major Tibbet’s invitation to dine at the King’s.”
“Indeed! When you are a little older, Mr Purchase, you will learn that women sometimes change their minds.” He was about ten years older than I was, and had perhaps had ten times as much experience; but those were trifles light as air. “Are you void of ideas, Mr Carter?”
“You must dine at the King’s Restaurant, Miss Norah.”
“Must? You use rather an odd word. Must?”
“Perhaps I had better have said that you will dine at the King’s Restaurant, Miss Norah. Having made an engagement, a lady keeps it.”
After the way in which he—indeed, in which they all—had behaved, the idea of his talking to me like that was good. Taking no notice of him, whatever, I crossed to Mr Hammond.
“You appear to be the most agreeable and obliging person present. Will you give me some dinner at Dupont’s? I never have dined at Dupont’s, but have often thought that I should like to.”
“Too charmed—only too charmed!”
“Thank you so much. These gentlemen can dine with Major Tibbet at the King’s, where we’ll hope that they’ll enjoy their meal.”
I took the arm which Mr Hammond offered, and the others came rushing to the front. Mr Carter, in particular, was most eloquent.
“Miss Norah, what have we done that you should desert us? You promised that you would be our guest—our co-guest.”
I put into my voice and words as much impertinence as I possibly could.
“I like your manners so little that I really cannot fancy you as one of my hosts, Mr Carter.”
“I only ventured to remind you that you had accepted——”
“No excuses, or explanations; I dislike both. If I consent to still suffer you near me, please understand that to-night I am above the law. My whims are to be paramount; my most transitory wish your chief desire. I may change my mind a hundred times; each time you’re at once to change yours too. Nor are you to so much as hint that I was ever in another mind. It does not follow because I tell Mr Hammond that I’ll dine with him at Dupont’s that I will—or that I’ll dine at all. In five minutes I may be in fifty moods. If you desire to question any one of them, please do not inflict your company on me. It is not the manner which I care for in a host of mine. Mr Hammond, at the present moment I am disposed to dine with you at Dupont’s. If these gentlemen choose, and know how to behave, it may be that they can dine there too.”
I went out of the room on Mr Hammond’s arm. The others came after us, with faces which were a little black. It was just possible that Major Tibbet was thinking of the bill which he would have to pay for the uneaten dinner at the King’s Restaurant. I have heard that for quite ordinary repasts their charges were enormous. Under the circumstances it could not have been pleasant for him to reflect that he had commanded them to do their very best.
Itwas rather a shock to discover that I was expected to travel with those five men in an omnibus. It was one of the private sort, and there were two men in livery; but it was an omnibus. I quite started when I got outside the front-door and saw it there.
“Dear me!” I exclaimed. “Am I supposed to ride in an omnibus? I can’t bear omnibuses.”
Mr Hammond was inclined to stammer.
“It’s—it’s—it’s a private omnibus.”
“Is it? How interesting. Am I intended to consider that fact interesting? Was I expected to take it for granted that I should be required to ride in a public omnibus, among the penny fares?”
Mr Hammond was inclined to stammer still more.
“Fact is, six rather awkward number—never heard of a carriage that would hold them all.”
“Two might have gone on the box, or even three. Then there is such a thing as a coach. A coach holds six.”
“Coach and four?”
“Or even a coach and three, if four was considered extravagant.”
“Idea of coaching to dinner in town never struck me. Don’t know why. Sporting notion—very. Afraid it would take some time to get one now.”
“Since you were so careless as not to have one ready, I cannot possibly wait while you repair your negligence. I must endeavour to make the best of your private omnibus.”
It is some distance from Kensington to Dupont’s Restaurant—which is, of course, in Regent Street—so that it took some time to drive. I do not know what kind of thing those five men had been looking forward to, but it was some satisfaction to feel that I was making each one of them about as uncomfortable as he could be made. I was in a pretty mood—I really was. It was amazing that they did not get out in a body, and leave me to occupy that omnibus all by myself. I had heard of what men will endure from some women. I had an object-lesson then. I knew, somehow, that it made no difference how I treated them. They would still be my humble, obedient, devoted slaves. When a girl has that feeling, for the very first time, it is a little tempting.
I decided that they were not a bad good-looking crowd. No girl need be ashamed of being seen with them. Mr Carter and Mr Purchase were distinctly handsome—though they were looking glum. Walter Hammond was not so bad, though he was lanky. As he would himself have phrased it, there was a sporting something about him of the right sort. Then his clothes fitted him as mine never would fit me; and when he had his eyeglass in his eye he looked quite striking. Mr Rumford was a trifle puffy, and he suggested trade—though nothing quite so bad as Aunt Jane’s Jalap. But then he was so plainly redolent of money that he passed muster. And then Major Tibbet was obviously someone—if only because he looked such a little horror.
Conversation languished. That was owing to me. When we had gone some distance Mr Rumford took out his watch.
“I am afraid we shall be late for the theatre. Piece begins at eight. Half-past seven now.”
“I presume that we have reserved seats. As they will be retained for us it doesn’t matter what time we occupy them.”
“Quite so—only, it disturbs the audience going in in the middle of the piece.”
“Really?”
That remark, from me, put a period to that topic. It made it so clear that to me it was a matter of the most complete indifference whether the audience was, or was not, disturbed. As a rule, I think it is horrid for people to come in late—so ill-bred—it upsets everyone. But I had a point of view for that night only.
I made another observation, when it seemed that you could have cut with a knife the silence which ensued.
“Is this a funeral party? Has the weight of our feelings made us dumb? Can’t any of you say something?”
That kind of remark always afflicts people’s tongues with a sort of paralysis. I was perfectly well aware of it. That was why I made it. They stumbled through some idiotic efforts to clothe with words ideas which they did not happen to possess just then. Then I created a diversion.
“I believe I would rather not dine at Dupont’s. I think I’ve heard stories about it which show that it is not quite the place for ladies. It seems strange that Mr Hammond should have made the suggestion.”
“Excuse me, Miss Norah, the suggestion——”
“Yes?”
I knew that he was about to say that it came from me. But I stopped him in time. Then he stopped himself—rather neatly.
“The suggestion—was—only a suggestion.”
“It is a pity that it got even as far as a suggestion. Can you not tell us of some place, Mr Rumford, where it’s respectable?”
“They feed you decently at the Imperial.”
“Then by all means let us go where they feed you decently.”
So we descended at the Imperial Hotel. We asked for a private room. There was an entrance hall, with a good many people in it. As we passed through we roused rather a sensation. I do not think that the women admired me—they could not possibly like my dress, nobody could, and there was nothing else about me to like—but on some of the men I believe I made an impression, of rather a peculiar kind. Of course I never looked at any of them. A lady never looks at a strange man. I hope I never should forget myself to that extent. But I noticed them all the same; and they all of them looked at me, in some cases in a somewhat singular way. Some of them had ladies with them; and in those cases I was convinced that the ladies—who were a thousand times better dressed than I was, and were so much prettier—did not entirely relish the manner in which their attendant cavaliers were eyeing me. And I suspected that my five men did not altogether like it either; so that it was rather amusing on the whole.
The dinner was not a complete success. I really could not say it was, especially at the beginning. To commence with, Mr Purchase and Mr Carter did not put in an appearance in that private room for two or three minutes after us, and I had a kind of persuasion that they had remained behind to say a few words to two gentlemen who had regarded me with marked attention. When they came Mr Purchase looked red and Mr Carter white. I wondered what had passed, and should have liked to have made inquiries. But at the moment I did not see how I could do so with appropriate delicacy.
There seemed to be a spirit of mischief in that private room which was bent on setting us at cross purposes. They showed a tendency to snap at each other’s noses, which, remembering that I was the only lady present, was not nice manners; though, of course, it had its entertaining side. An imposing personage—a manager, or head waiter, or something—had followed us into the room, and with a tablet in his hand, stood prepared to take our orders, which it seemed that nobody was quite prepared to give. There was a general disinclination to order the various dishes which together go to make a dinner, which was slightly embarrassing, and was the cause of some little discussion. Under the circumstances, I cannot see how the imposing personage was to blame for taking the matter a good deal out of their hands. Even if he did it with a certain air of deference to me, I cannot admit that he ignored them altogether, or that he drew up the plan of a dinner in which they were not suffered to have a voice. Therefore when, having completed the order for the meal, he withdrew, I was astonished to hear the remarks of which he was the subject. Major Tibbet drew himself to his full height—which, after all, is not much—blew his nose—which I do not believe required blowing—and flourished his handkerchief—which was of salmon-coloured silk—in the air.
“Fellow’s too big for his place!”
To my surprise the others followed in a chorus which pointed to their being, for the first time, in agreement with the Major.
“A good deal too big,” declared Mr Rumford; “and he forgets his place.”
“Too much mouth,” was Mr Hammond’s cryptic utterance. “Wants riding on the snaffle.”
Mr Purchase’s comment was easier to understand; and, perhaps, on that very account, more acidulated.
“Some of the jacks-in-office you meet in places of this sort are insufferable.”
Mr Carter echoed him, with an addition of his own.
“The amazing part of it is the way in which they are suffered.”
“But,” I observed, with all the innocence at my command, “why are you finding fault with him? I thought him most attentive.”
“There is such a thing,” returned the Major, seesawing himself on his toes and heels in a way I hate, “especially in a fellow in his position, as being too attentive.”
“But I thought that it was the special business of persons in his position to be attentive, that that was what they were there for, and that the more attentive they were the better.”
“There are waysandways of being attentive, Miss Norah.”
This was Mr Carter. He looked really angry. I had not a notion why.
“I rather liked his way,” I said.
I could see that words were trembling on Mr Carter’s lips. The five exchanged glances, the meaning of which was beyond my comprehension. The door opened; in came the imposing personage followed by two of his understrappers. Mr Carter looked him full in the face.
“You needn’t wait.”
The personage seemed surprised, as was not unnatural.
“Pardon me, sir, I am the manager of the private rooms.”
“I say that you need not wait.”
“Very well, sir, as you please; but I am no waiter.”
Yet he acted as if he were a waiter, which did seem a little impertinent. But he managed with such dexterity, that, without an actual scene, it would have been difficult to keep him out of the room.
People in his position nearly always are good-looking, after a fashion of their own, which is a fashion I detest. As regards looks he was certainly up to the average of his kind; indeed, I should have said a good deal above it, only the expression of opinion would not have been popular just then. He was an enormous man, perhaps six foot three or four, with tremendous width across the chest, and the most magnificent moustache. It was the finest moustache I had ever seen, and curled up at the ends in a way which made you keep on wondering how he did it. He had fair hair which curled naturally, and was parted in the middle, and the bluest eyes. Of course he was a German; and when you paused to think that his compatriots could afford to allow such a man as he was to go abroad and be a waiter, and never notice his absence, then you began to understand how it is that Germany bids fair to take her stand in the highest places.
At the same time, his conduct did make the position seem a trifle strained, even more strained than it would have been without him, which was saying something. He might call himself the manager of the private rooms; but, despite Mr Carter, he succeeded in combining with his management a good deal of personal attention to me,—and that with an air which reminded me irresistibly of the shop-walker and the barber; and which I saw quite plainly brought my own five men nearly to the boiling point.
For my own part, I do not care what I eat. But when I am eating I do not like to feel that at any moment plates may be thrown about. I had the feeling throughout that dinner. A note of discord was in the air, in fact, several notes. My companions grumbled at all the dishes, regardless of my presence. They reviled the meal as a whole, and in its several parts, declining to admit that it had a single redeeming feature. One is bound to confess that that private room manager’s demeanour was in striking contrast to that of his guests. They did nearly everything, short of throwing things at his head. He, on the other hand, was imperturbability itself; to me, the soul of politeness. And though he looked as if he could have knocked all their heads together, he listened to the nasty things they said—and they said some nasty ones—with a smile which never faltered for a single second.
The climax came with the bill. Major Tibbet approached the subject in a style which I had not supposed was customary when a lady was present.
“I suppose we are going to the theatre; and its certainly no use our lingering over this travesty of a Christian meal. I must apologise to you, Miss Norah, for what you have suffered; but I trust you will do me the justice to admit that the fault is hardly mine.”
“Thank you; I have enjoyed my dinner very much.”
“Dinner? You call it dinner? Really, Miss Norah, you allow your goodness of heart to carry you too far. I don’t know which was worse, the food itself, the way in which it was prepared, or the service.”
They followed one after the other.
“The service in particular was bad.”
“Shocking. Never saw worse. Stable boy could have done better.”
“Perhaps we have been unfortunate in our attendants.”
“There is no perhaps in the case. We have been.”
Then came my postscript.
“I thought the service excellent.”
“To have pleased madame is very much.”
That manager of the private rooms favoured me with a bow and a smile, for which—from the expression of their countenances—I should scarcely have been surprised if they had attacked him tooth and nail. The Major spluttered.
“I suppose there is something to pay—though we have had practically nothing. Waiter,”—with an accent on the “waiter,”—“let us know at once what there is to pay.”
The personage retired, presently to return with a document which he placed before the Major. The Major’s face at sight of it was a study.
“What! This! For such a meal! Monstrous, absolutely monstrous! Rank robbery, nothing else.”
He passed the document round the table. By each it was commented on with equal freedom, which was nice for me, who had consumed the repast to the charge for which my hosts objected to with so much vigour. The imposing personage’s attitude made it even nicer.
“These gentlemen object to the bill?”
“Object? I should think we do object. We object very much to being robbed.”
“If these gentlemen do not wish to pay the bill they need not. We shall not try to make them, not at all. We will make them a present of the food, the wine, the service, everything. Only—they will not be served in the house again.”
That, as I have said, was the climax. The bill was paid. My hosts did not propose to allow themselves to be regarded as recipients of charity. That manager of the private rooms showed, as I quitted the apartment, that his temper was still unruffled.
“Madame will permit that I offer her a flower.”
He held out a white rose. I placed it among Basil Carter’s lilies-of-the-valley. I sincerely trusted that Audrey had never seen such an expression on Mr Carter’s face. To me it looked like murder.
I wasenjoying myself pretty fairly, taking it altogether. I wished I was better dressed. It made me wild to see women in such lovely things. Not that I envied them their clothes. I can safely say that about a good many of them, that was all there was to envy; and, after all, clothes are not quite everything. But it was disgusting that I should be so dowdy. And the consciousness was forcing itself on me momentarily more and more, that Jane’s shoes were tight, even for shoes. Still, there were alleviations. It was not so unpleasant as one might think, to feel that five grown men were hanging on your skirts—even if they were not in the latest fashion—as if it was painful to be more than a yard or so away from you. The ill-concealed fury with which they resented the interest which I roused in the breasts of other men was not without its amusing side.
There could be no doubt that I did arouse interest, not the very slightest. As we passed through the hall to the omnibus—that undignified vehicle!—I accidentally dropped Audrey’s fan—at least, almost accidentally. I ought not to have dropped it, because it was a lovely fan, and it was awfully good of Audrey to lend it me, and it might have been damaged by the fall. But it was not; it fell on the carpet, and was not hurt a bit. And I could not help but drop it. The men of the hall looked at me in one kind of queer way, and the women looked at me in another, so I felt bound to try an experiment; and down went the fan.
The result was most surprising. In an instant every male creature there came rushing to pick it up, guests and attendants. It was so odd; and not the least odd part of it was the faces of the women. I doubt if some of them had ever been more astonished in their lives before, or angrier. For every one of them to be deserted, without a moment’s warning, for a dowdily-dressed girl’s fan—and, oh dear! I did not need their critical glances to tell me I was dowdy—was a trifle marked. There was quite a scramble to pick up Audrey’s fan. It ran more risk of being damaged in the scrimmage than by the fall.
“I am sorry to give you all so much trouble,” I murmured.
But they did not seem to mind in the least. They appeared, if anything, to like it.
The fan was returned to me by a man who was really better-looking than that manager of the private rooms—at least, in my opinion. And he had as fine a moustache, though there was not such an ostentatious quantity of it, and it stood out straight at either end in the daintiest way. He was what I should call a brown man, with a pair of eyes which positively laughed at you. He had on a white waistcoat, which fitted him like a glove, and was both a dandy and a man.
He stood in front of me, with Audrey’s fan in his hand, and something in his eyes which sent a thrill all over. I fancy it must have been because he looked so masterful.
“It is very good of you to take so much trouble. I am very awkward.”
“I am very fortunate.”
That was all he said. I do not think I ever heard a more musical voice in a man. With a graceful movement of his handsome head he handed me the fan. But he did not move. And, somehow, I did not seem to mind his continuing to stand there with his eyes looking into mine. But my escort did. The Major began to fuss.
“Now, are we going to that theatre or are we not? Because, if we are, we shall have to make haste if we want to get there before the piece is over.”
The procession continued towards the door, the men giving way to let us pass, following me with their eyes in a manner which was pronounced. I was conscious that the women also were following me with their eyes, in a manner which was equally pronounced, in an entirely different sense. I knew they were picking me to pieces, failing to see anything in me of any sort or kind, and disapproving of me most heartily. But I was also aware that the brown man was coming after us towards the door. As we were climbing into the omnibus he stood on the top of the steps, out in the open street, and watched us. When Mr Hammond told the coachman to drive to the Gaiety Theatre I felt sure he heard. He gave a little inclination of his head as we drove off which as good as said he did.
In the omnibus the atmosphere was not less charged with electricity than it had been before. Indeed, I should have said that it even more inclined to give off sparks. As soon as we had started, Mr Carter observed, with his very sweetest air:
“There seem to be a great many impertinent persons about to-night.”
I knew he had the brown man in his mind’s eye. He had glared at him throughout.
“One does meet impertinent persons sometimes. Occasionally one even goes out with them.”
He looked as if he could have said a good deal, but he managed to refrain. The others, apparently, were warned by his fate; they joined him in an ominous silence. So I went on, sweetly:
“What a handsome man that head-waiter was, wasn’t he? And wasn’t he big? I couldn’t see what fault you had to find with him, I thought he was most attentive; and it was nice of him to give me this rose. One values small attentions from persons in his position.”
I thought that that most innocent remark would have had the effect of a lighted match dropped into a barrel of gunpowder. But I was mistaken. They all, with one accord, persisted in saying nothing at all. I knew that they thought the more. Still, their dumbness had an effect which was disconcerting. I was just beginning to wonder if I was to spend the evening in the society of a company of deaf-mutes, when a remark from Mr Hammond loosed their tongues in earnest.
“By the way, about sitting in the theatre, you’ll sit with me first, won’t you, Miss Norah? Now say you will?”
Mr Rumford interposed, before I could reply:
“That sort of thing is contrary to our agreement, Mr Hammond, entirely contrary. Personal appeals were expressly forbidden. We arranged the order in which the sitting was to be; and by that arrangement you undertook to stand.”
“That’s all very well, but according to that arrangement she was to sit first with you.”
“Precisely. Which makes my astonishment the greater that you should attempt to upset it.”
“And afterwards with Purchase.”
Then came Mr Purchase’s turn.
“Quite so; after sitting for twenty minutes with Mr Rumford.”
“And then with Carter.”
“Perfectly correct.” This Mr Carter. “Unfortunately, Miss Norah, I have not been able to get another box. So we have agreed that I shall remain outside Purchase’s box while he enjoys your company, and that then he shall go down to Mr Rumford’s stall when my turn comes.”
“There promises to be a good deal of transferring,” I observed. “Something like not having more than one dance with a single partner.”
“And afterwards,” continued the injured Mr Hammond, “Miss Norah is to sit with Tibbet.”
“And I shall be only too charmed to have her,” simpered the Major. “Better late than never. Only unluckily, Miss Norah, I’m in an almost worse plight than Mr Carter, inasmuch as I have only succeeded in procuring two seats, in what, I am given to understand, is called the upper circle—wretched places in the clouds.”
“They’re not seats in which a lady ought to be asked to sit, certain fact.”
“Then,” suggested Mr Rumford, “when it is the Major’s turn, you might let him have your two stalls.”
“Capital notion, Mr Rumford, excellent. I am sure that Mr Hammond will be only too delighted.”
Mr Hammond might be delighted, but he did not show it. He preferred to air a grievance which evidently lay heavy on his mind.
“What I have to say is this. When we made the arrangement you’re all so keen about, it was understood that we should be in the theatre by eight. But it’s now past nine.”
“We are hardly to blame for that.”
“Don’t say you are—don’t say anyone’s to blame,—only stating a fact. But as things are, it comes to this—that, by the time you’ve all had your turns, the performance will be over, and then where shall I be? That’s what I want to know.”
“A bargain is a bargain, Mr Hammond; and when one is signed and sealed one generally has to adhere to it.”
“It may be a bargain for you, Rumford, but don’t call it a bargain for me. The entire arrangement was based on the presumption that we should be in the theatre at eight o’clock, and, as we’re not, then the whole thing falls to the ground.”
“An astounding proposition, Mr Hammond! A most astounding proposition!”
Then they all began to talk at once, in tones which did not suggest that they would quickly arrive at a clear and amicable common understanding. It struck me that it was about time for me to say a word. So I said one.
“It seems to me, if I may be allowed to speak—and I really don’t care to hear people bawling in an omnibus, at least not more than two or three at once, unless I am first permitted to get out—I say that it seems to me that you are drawing up the programme of how I am to spend the evening without the slightest reference to my wishes. So far as I understand I am to be passed round and round the theatre, as if I were an old shoe, in a sort of game of hunt-the-slipper.”
“Say, rather, like some priceless jewel, which each desires to regard—though only for a few fleeting moments—as his own.”
“That may sound prettier, Mr Purchase, but the idea does not appeal to me, and I’m not fond of trotting in and out of stalls and boxes.”
“But the arrangement was made, Miss Norah.”
“Really, Mr Carter, you seem to have arrangements on the brain. Have I not already told you that I care nothing for arrangements, whether made or unmade? You are taking me to the theatre at a ridiculously late hour. I cannot understand why you went through the farce of asking me to go if you did not propose to get me there before the performance was over. I exceedingly dislike arriving after the piece has commenced. The least you could do was to manage matters so as to ensure that I didn’t.”
The pause which followed was instinct with the silence of speechlessness. The audacity of my method of presenting the case took those five men’s breath away. I looked into each of their faces with a look which dared them to contradict me. And none of them dared. It was delicious. The idea that if I chose to say that black was white I could induce normally reasonable people to refrain from, at any rate openly, attempting to demonstrate the contrary was a novel one. Yet I could not but feel that such a power might become dangerous if it were carried too far. It would not be pleasant for persons to be compelled to regard chalk as cheese.
I was not, however, disposed to consider that I had carried that power too far as yet. So I continued my observations in a strain which was intended to impress them with my conviction that I was the injured party.
“Since, owing to your curious method of managing affairs, so much of the evening has been already wasted, all that remains is for you to do your utmost to enable me to enjoy those portions of the performance which we may still be in time to see.”
“That is our one desire, Miss Norah; our one desire!”
“If that is the case then you will not consider yourselves at all, you will only consider me.”
“How are we to do that, Miss Norah?”
“By observing my wishes.”
“What—wh—what are your wishes?”
The question was asked with a faltering intonation which spoke volumes.
“They are very simple. It is plain that we cannot all sit together. It is equally plain that you cannot agree as to how the division is to be effected. I will solve the difficulty by telling you what are my own wishes in the matter. If you have any regard for me, whatever, you will observe them. Mr Purchase will sit in the stalls with Mr Hammond; Mr Carter with Mr Rumford; Major Tibbet will have his two seats in the upper circle to himself, and I will occupy the box—alone.”
My proposal was not greeted with any greater warmth than I expected. I never saw five blanker looking faces.
“Miss Norah, you’re not—you’re not—very complimentary to us all.”
“I did not intend to be. I did not know you brought me out to pay you compliments.”
“You’ve hit the nail in pointing out that you ought to consider the box as yours, and only yours. That’s right enough. We’re pretty idiots not to have seen it all along. But mayn’t some of us come up and talk to you now and then?”
“I’d rather you didn’t. You might spoil my enjoyment of what was taking place upon the stage.”
“Miss Norah!”
“However, I have no desire to enjoy myself at your expense. So, when we reach the theatre, you go to your seats—and ask the coachman to drive me home.”
As it happened, just then we reached the theatre. The door of the omnibus was opened, and, almost before I knew it, I was being handed out of it on to the pavement. It was all done so quickly that I really had no time to remonstrate. Still less to carry the trampling process to a further stage. Those five men had more ways of obtaining their own ends than one might suppose. And when a brougham dashed up, and the brown man sprang out of it, almost within a couple of feet of where I was standing, in a manner of speaking I lost my head completely.
Thereis more depth in a man than one might imagine. I am not sure that that is exactly what I mean, but then I do not know how to describe just what I do mean; it sometimes is so difficult. One thing is certain, that a man does keep his presence of mind, and that not always in a manner which he has any reason to consider creditable. I am not able to state what happened with so much clearness as I should wish, or, indeed, with any clearness at all. Under the circumstances, to expect lucidity from me is out of the question. I know that I lost my presence of mind. I have a vague impression that during the time I was wholly without it, I was hurried somewhere, by some one, in a manner which was beyond my comprehension. When I regained it, at least in part—for I never did altogether during the entire remainder of that evening; that I do most solemnly assert—I was in a seat, with a stage in front of me, on which something was going on, and people all round me, who were apparently in a state of dissatisfaction with someone, about something. Voices were saying behind me:
“Sit down in front!”
I looked, and there, actually, was Walter Hammond settling himself in a seat at my side. A gentleman on the other side of him leant forward and said:
“I don’t know if you’re aware that you’ve trodden on my hat, sir.”
Mr Hammond’s manner did not betray the mental disturbance which his reply suggested.
“Frightfully sorry! Delighted to provide you with another, sir!”
I was lost in amazement as to how I had come to be where I was; above all, how he had come to be there too. Where were the four? How was it that they had calmly acquiesced in my being whipped off from underneath their very noses? Where was the brown man, and everything? Some observations from Mr Hammond threw a little light upon the matter, but not much.
“Very neatly done—the riding did it—bad starters—left them at the post—romped in before they knew we’d begun to make the running.”
“Where,” I inquired, “are the others? And how is it that, after what I have just now been saying, I find myself here?”
“Question of jockeyship, Miss Norah. Good seat in the saddle—quick hands—made up my mind you and I should be snug together.”
“I wish to understand,” I began.
“Will you pardon my pointing out to you, madam, that a lady is singing on the stage?”
Hardly had I opened my mouth than this remark, or question, or whatever it was intended for, was addressed to me by a woman who occupied the seat upon my left. There was not much of her, but she made up in acidity—or it seemed as if she did—what she lacked in size. The undressed portion of her—which was disproportionately large—was covered with jewels. She looked to me to be about fifty, though, I daresay, she would have given her age as thirty-five. Being spoken to in such a fashion by a perfect stranger, and such a shrimp of a thing, precipitated me back into the condition of mental confusion from which I had just been emerging. When I myself get to a theatre early, and am enjoying the performance, I hate people to come in late. And when to that offence they add the capital crime of talking out loud, or even in an audible whisper—and there is a certain sort of whisper which is almost more audible than a shout—I sometimes ask myself why they were not drowned when they were young. In a mazy sort of mist I was disposed to wonder if other people could possibly be asking themselves the same question about me. I became hazily conscious that I was an object of general attention. People were murmuring among themselves. I even suspected the performers on the stage of regarding me with a malevolent eye.
It was a painful situation. I could not stand up and explain to the audience that it was not my fault I had entered in such a whirlwind fashion, apparently in the very middle of a song. I could not tell them that if I had had my way I should not have been there at all. Still less could I rise up, then and there, and march straight out again. All I could do was sit still, and burn.
On the other hand, Mr Hammond showed not the slightest sign of discomfiture. I was not only aware that he was smiling in a most significant manner, but he went so far as to allow himself to touch me with the point of his elbow, nudged me, in fact, with it in the side. And he said:
“Gay old kicker.”
I do not pretend to be versed in stable slang, but it was impossible to suppose that the phrase conveyed a compliment, especially as a reference from a gentleman to a lady of ripened years—I should not have been surprised if she had been more than fifty. Unfortunately, the reference was as obvious as it was audible. I felt my next-door neighbour draw herself up in a way which made a creepy-crawly feeling go all over me. I looked at her with what was intended to be an air of deprecation, and an intimation that I was in no way to be confounded with that dreadful Walter Hammond. And as I did so I became conscious that on the other side of her was a man—an old man, a very old man, and, also, I am afraid, a wicked old man. He was big and bald, with a red face, a weedy, white moustache, and an expression which I should describe as a mixture of ferocity, depravity, and—though I am reluctant to write it—drink. Picture my sensations when—as I turned to the little woman, who, I fear, poor thing, was his wife; before I really realised his presence, or how he was staring at me with his great eyes: and, emphatically, before I had the dimmest suspicion of what he was about to do—he winked at me—positively winked, not once, nor twice, but thrice—ostentatiously, without the least attempt at concealment. The little woman did not catch him in the act; goodness only knows what would have happened if she had. What he meant by it, or what he took me for, I have not the faintest notion. I was beginning to wonder what everyone took me for. Although I know my face became as red as fire, I went cold all over. Just then the singing on the stage ceased, people broke into applause. In the midst of their clapping I became aware that Walter Hammond was addressing me in a strain which as nearly as possible deprived me of the small remainder of my breath.
Whether, under any circumstances, a reasonable being would have supposed that that was a proper place, or a fitting moment, to enter on a subject of the kind, I cannot say, but, considering that, to all intents and purposes, we were strangers, and how he had treated me in the days gone by—not to speak of the way in which he had behaved to Eveleen—his doing so, then and there, was—well, beyond anything. I was so bewildered, and the people made such a noise, and he had such a queer way of expressing himself, that at first I did not understand what he was after.
“Don’t believe in entering a filly unless you mean running her to win.” I repeat that I have no pretension whatever to an acquaintance with the language of the turf; so that if there is anything muddled about his metaphors as I repeat them, I presume that the fault is mine. “If I had my way should always penalise entries which weren’t on the job. Whenever I’m in I’m there to win. That’s me, Miss Norah, straight. I’m no mole—always do what I do do out in the open—no burrowing for me. When I go for a mark, I aim for all I’m worth. Same with a girl. Mayn’t seem like a marrying man—have been told I’m like a cock, hard to bag. As girls go, small wonder they only bag crocks. But when I’m in for marriage, I mean getting there—there’s no stopping me—foul riding couldn’t do it—and there’s no fear of foul riding from you, because you’re different from any girl I ever met. Miss Norah, I love you!”
As ill luck would have it the applause died away just as he uttered those words—and just as I was approaching the dumfounded stage. An encore had been conceded; the singer was preparing to re-commence, when Mr Hammond delivered himself of that paralysing piece of information in a tone of voice which had been designed to reach my ears in spite of the din, and which rose above the sudden silence in a sort of roar. In consequence, those fatal words—“Miss Norah, I love you!”—must have been heard all over the stalls, by nearly everyone in the pit, and by goodness knows who else besides. It was delightful for me. I should have liked to have sunk into the ground. A voice came from somewhere at the back—a vulgar voice.
“You’re quite right, sir; and so say all of us; we all love Norah.”
Giggles came from every side. Regardless of what I felt, that extraordinary man did not seem to care in the least what anybody thought of him. Merely dropping his voice a tone or two, he actually went straight on:
“Never mind those beggars—time’s precious—must make the running while you can. I say, Miss Norah, that I love you.”
A gentleman in the row of stalls behind us leant forward, thrusting his head between Mr Hammond’s and mine, and observed—think of it!—
“We have heard you say so once already, sir. Would you mind postponing the repetition of the statement till after the singer has finished. We are waiting to hear the song?”
So far from being nonplussed, or disconcerted, or ashamed, or anything he ought to have been, all that Mr Hammond did do was to adjust his monocle more securely in his eye, and to look at the stage. Seeing that the fact was as stated, and that somebody was about to sing, he apparently appreciated the reasonableness of the stranger’s request, and held his peace; and the singer sang.
What she sang about—she was one of those lovely ladies whom you do find at the Gaiety—I have not an idea. All my ideas were gone. I was more than speechless. There was Walter Hammond, sitting all at once as if he had been carved out of stone, glaring at the stage as if he took not the slightest interest in what was taking place on it. The man behind, when making that unutterably impertinent remark, had slipped a scrap of paper over my shoulder, unnoticed, I presume, by Mr Hammond, and, I hope, by everyone else. It had slid down my bare neck, and had lodged in the top of my bodice. That wicked old person who sat on the other side of the little woman kept his beetroot-coloured face turned almost constantly in my direction; when I moved so much as an eyelash in his, he winked. Short of provoking a scandalous scene, I did not see what I could do to stop it, even if I had had my senses sufficiently about me to do anything, which I really had not. For, endeavouring to avoid his winks, my glances reached a box which was, so to speak, on the other side of the top of his bald head. In it was the brown man. He was standing up in the centre of it, well to the front. Although he shared the box with a lady, he did not allow her presence to deter him in the least. So soon as he caught my eye, he inclined his head in my direction in the most noticeable way, as if we had been quite old friends. The lady, who was young and pretty, and most beautifully dressed, was sitting down on his right, an opera-glass before her eyes, pointed straight at me. When he presumed to bestow on me that movement of recognition, she put down her glass and smiled, and, unless I was mistaken, nodded at me. I was convinced that I had never seen her in my life before. What did she mean? and what did he mean? and what should I do?
Of course, noticing his impertinence was out of the question, though he did look so distinguished standing up there in his beautiful white waistcoat, really my ideal of a handsome man. To avoid him, and to mark my sense of his misconduct, I turned my head right round, so that my glance lighted on the box which was exactly opposite the one in which he was.
It was occupied by the four men.
They were standing up, all in a row. At one end, a little back, was Mr Rumford. He had his hands in his pockets. On his face was an expression which hardly betokened enjoyment of the actors’ and actresses’ efforts to amuse. Next to him was Basil Carter, to whom, from what I had understood, the box belonged. He was apparently not in the best of tempers. Resting his hands on the edge of the box, he glared, first at Mr Hammond, then at me, then at the brown man over the way. I could not honestly assert that he looked pleasantly at either of us. I had learned a good deal about his temper since leaving home. I wondered if Audrey had an inkling of what sort of one he really had. Beside him was Jack Purchase. His arms were crossed upon his chest in what I imagine that he perhaps supposed was a tragic attitude. It reminded me of the pictures in the novelettes which I used to read when I was little—“Lady Lucy’s Lingering Love,” and that sort of thing. They were rather fond of giving illustrations of gentlemen with their arms folded across their chests; and there was something in his face which was a good deal like what used to be on theirs. He looked alternately at the brown man and Mr Hammond as if he would have liked to eat them, though, I daresay, that that was not the impression which the look was intended to convey. With the fingers of one hand he held the brim of his crush hat. Personally, I should not have been a bit surprised if it had come spinning down at Mr Hammond at my side, or if it had gone whirling through the air at the brown man opposite. If he could have used it as a boomerang, and flung it at both, it is my private impression that, in spite of the scandal it would have occasioned, he would have done it. I never saw two men in worse tempers than he and Mr Carter seemed to be just then.
At the further end of the row, completing the quartette, was little Major Tibbet. He was really a pitiable figure. What, I suspect, was his partial consciousness of the fact made it more obvious still. He kept fidgeting from foot to foot, touching himself furtively here and there, as if he doubted if everything was right. And it was not. He seemed to have been in the wars. His wig was on one side, one eyebrow was not only smudgy, but distinctly higher than the other, and something dreadful had happened to his complexion. An earthquake, or some similar cataclysm, seemed to have cracked it, so that on one side of his face quite a large patch of it was missing.
I could not but feel that mamma would not have liked to have seen him in his then condition. She is so particular about men’s appearance, especially those whom she honours with her acquaintance. And if she has the faintest suspicion that her own transformation is in the very slightest degree out of the straight, she nearly worries herself into a fit. What would she have felt if she had seen the singular angle at which the Major’s wig was poised?