"To Make Elderberry Wine Required—Half a peck of ripe elderberries.One and a half gallons of boiling water.To Each Gallon of JuiceThree pounds of loaf sugar,Four cloves,Six allspice.
"To Make Elderberry Wine Required—
Half a peck of ripe elderberries.One and a half gallons of boiling water.
To Each Gallon of Juice
Three pounds of loaf sugar,Four cloves,Six allspice.
Stalk the berries, put them into a large vessel with the boiling water, cover it closely, and leave for twenty-four hours," and so on.
To one person she was quite devoted—her nephew Savile.
One morning Aunt William woke up at half-pastseven, and complained to her maid that she had had insomnia for twenty minutes. Having glanced at the enlarged and coloured photograph of the late William that decorated every room, she ordered a luncheon of roast mutton and rice pudding, rhubarb tart and cream, almonds and raisins, and oranges, thinking that this menu would be at once suitable and attractive to a boy of sixteen. In a more indulgent moment she then sent out for a large packet of milk-chocolate, and prepared to receive Savile at lunch.
When Savile arrived in his father's motor, Mrs. Crofton, who had been looking out for him at the window, ran up to her room (she could run when alone) and allowed him to be shown into the drawing-room by himself. Aunt William resented automobiles as much as she disliked picture postcards, week-ends, musical comedies, and bridge.
Savile walked up and down the enormous room, lost in thought, and scarcely observing his surroundings. He smiled slightly as he contemplated the portrait of Uncle Mary, who was represented as leaning rather weakly for support against a pedestal that looked by no means secure, with a heavy curtain and a lowering sky in the background.
"Jove! what short frock-coats those chapswore!" thought Savile. "What rotters they must have been!"
"And so Lord Chetwode is out of town again?" Aunt William said, as they sat over dessert.
"Gone to Newmarket."
"I see in theMorning Postthat your sister Sylvia was at Lady Gaskaine's last night. I suppose she was the belle of the ball." She offered him some preserved ginger.
"No, she wasn't. There's no such thing as a belle of the ball now, Aunt William. She danced with Heath and Broughton, of course, and Caldrey, and those chaps. Broughton took her to supper."
Aunt William seemed gratified.
"Curious! I recollect Lord Broughton in kilts when he was a little toddling pet of seven! His father was considered one of the most fascinating men of his day, my dear. What a beautiful place Broughton Hall is!" She pressed another orange on him.
"Oh, Sylvia's all right," said Savile, impartially declining the fruit and producing an aluminium cigarette-case. Aunt William, pretending not to see it, passed him the matches as if in a fit of absence of mind. As a matter of fact, Savile was really more at home with Aunt William than with any one, even his sisters.
"And now, my dear boy, tell me about yourself."
Savile took out of his pocket the envelope containing her photograph.
"I say, I took this out of the album last time I came," he said apologetically.
Aunt William almost blushed. She was genuinely flattered.
"But what's that—that green book I see in your pocket? I suppose it's Euclid, or Greek, or something you're learning."
"No, it's not; it's poetry. A ripping poem I've just found out. I know you like that sort of rot, so I brought it for you."
Her face softened. Savile was the only person who knew her romantic side.
"A poem!" she said in a lowered voice. "Oh, what is it about?"
"Oh, about irises, and how 'In the Spring a Young Man's Fancy,' that sort of thing—Tennyson, you know."
"Tennyson!" exclaimed Aunt William. "Do you know Eliza Cook? I think 'The Old Armchair' one of the loveliest poems in the language."
"Never heard of it."
"Savile," said Aunt William, when they were sitting by the fire in the drawing-room, "I'm glad you're fond of poetry. Have you ever written any at all? You needn't be ashamed ofit, my dear boy, if you have. I admire sentiment, but only up to a certain point, of course."
"Well, it's odd you should say that. I wrote something yesterday. I say, you won't go and give it away, Aunt William?"
"Most certainly not!"
She grew animated.
"Show it to me, if you have it with you. A taste for literature is in the family. Once a second cousin of ours—you never knew him—wrote me a sonnet!"
"Did he, though? Well, I dare say it was all right. Here's my stuff. I rather thought I'd consult you. I want to send it to some one."
Concealing his nervousness under a stern, even harsh demeanour, Savile took out a folded sheet of paper from a brown pigskin letter-case.
Aunt William clasped her hands and leaned forward.
Savile read aloud in an aggressive, matter-of-fact manner the following words:——
"My singing bird, my singing bird,Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing, oh sing to me,Nothing like it has ever been heard,"
"My singing bird, my singing bird,Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing, oh sing to me,Nothing like it has ever been heard,"
(Here he dropped the letter-case, and picked it up, blushing at the contents that had fallen out.)
"And I do love to hear thee sing."
"And I do love to hear thee sing."
His aunt looked a little faint. She leant back and fanned herself, taking out her smelling-salts.
"That's not all," said Savile. Warming to his work, he went on more gruffly:—
"What should I do if you should stop?Oh wilt thou sing for me alone?For I will fly to hear your notes:Your tune would melt a heart of stone."
"What should I do if you should stop?Oh wilt thou sing for me alone?For I will fly to hear your notes:Your tune would melt a heart of stone."
"My gracious, my dear, it's a poem!" said Aunt William.
"Who said it wasn't? But you can't judge till you've heard the whole thing."
She turned away her head and struggled with a smile, while he read the last verse defiantly and quickly, growing rather red:—
"I haven't got a stony heartOr whatever it is, it belongs to you:I vow myself thy slave,And always I shall e'er be true!"
"I haven't got a stony heartOr whatever it is, it belongs to you:I vow myself thy slave,And always I shall e'er be true!"
There was an embarrassed pause.
"Well, I really think that last line is rather pretty," said Aunt William, who had regained her self-control. "But do you think it is quite—"
"Is it all right to send to Her?" he said. "That's the point!"
"Well, I can hardly say. Would your father——"
"I say! You're not going to tell the Governor?"
"No, never, Savile dear. It shall be our secret," said Aunt William, reassuringly.
"Of course, I know this sort of thing is great rot," he said apologetically, "but women like it."
"Oh, do they really?" said Aunt William. "Well! what I always say is, if you're born with a gift, you should cultivate it!"
Savile (thinking this encouragement rather meagre) replaced the poem and said: "I shall have to be going now, Aunt William. Got an appointment."
"With whom, my dear?"
"Yes," said Savile dryly. He did not approve of this direct method of ascertaining what one wants to know. He would confide, but never answered questions. She accepted the hint, but would not acknowledge it.
"Ah, I see!" she said knowingly (wishing she did). "Well, if you must go, you must!"
"Yes, Aunt William."
"But before you go, about that party ... I'm coming, of course. In fact, I'm having my peach brocade done up. Tell dear Sylvia that if there's anything I can do—I mean in the way of helping her with regard to the supper——"
"We've telephoned to Benoist's. It's all fixed up. Thanks very much."
"Oh! But still I think I'll send my recipe for salmon mayonnaise. Don't you think I might?"
"It can't do any harm, when you come to think of it," he answered, getting up.
Before he left, Aunt William pressed a sovereign into his hand guiltily, as if it were conscience money. He, on his side, took it as though it were a doctor's fee, and both ignored the transaction.
"Tell your father I'm sure I shall enjoy his entertainment, though why onearthhe still lives in Onslow Square, when he ought to be in London, I can't and never shall, understand. However, I believe there's quite a sort of society in Kensington, and no doubtsomeof the right people will be there. Are any of the Primrose League coming, do you know, Savile?"
"Sure to be. There's Jasmyn Vere for one."
"Oh, Lord Dorking's son. He's a Knight Harbinger."
"Is he, though? He looks like a night porter," said Savile. "Good-bye." He then turned back to murmur. "I say, Aunt William. Thanks most awfully." She went back smiling.
A few minutes later Savile was looking over the railings into Berkeley Square.
In a kind of summer-house among the trees sat a little girl of fourteen dressed in grey. She wore a large straw hat on her head and a blue bow in her hair, and had evidently providedherself with materials of amusement for the afternoon, for she had a "picture-postcard album" by her side, and seemed absorbed in a thick volume of history.
Dolly Clive resembled in expression and the shape of her face one of Sir Joshua's angel's heads (if one could imagine them brunettes). She had large brown eyes and a long black plait, and was a graceful example of what was formerly called "the awkward age." It needed no connoisseur to see that she was going to be a very pretty woman. When she saw Savile, she rushed to the gate and let him in with a key.
"Hallo, Dolly!"
"I say, Savile, wasn't King Charles the Second an angel? I've just been reading all about him, and you can't think what fun they used to have!"
He seemed surprised at this greeting, walked slowly with her to the arbour, and said rather suspiciously——
"Who had fun?"
"Why Lady Castlemaine, and Nell Gwynne, and the Duchess of Portsmouth,—and all those people. It says so here, if you don't believe it! I wish I'd lived at that time."
"I don't. There's fun now, too."
"Ah, but you don't know anything about it, Savile. I bet you anything you like you can'ttell me those clever lines about the poor darling King's death!"
"Of course I can. Everybody knows them." Savile made an effort and then said, "You mean Fain would I climb but that ..."
"Oh no, no, no! Oh, good gracious, no! One more try, now."
"Had I but served my God as faithfully as I have served my king ..."
"Wrong again. That's Sir Philip Sidney," she said, shutting up the book with a bang. "It's
Here lies our Sovereign Lord the KingWhose word no man relies on ..."
Here lies our Sovereign Lord the KingWhose word no man relies on ..."
"I say, old girl, I didn't come here to talk history, if you don't mind."
"Well, what do you want to talk about? Shall I show you my new one of Zena Dare?" said Dolly, opening the postcard album.
"Certainly not. I can't worry about Zena Dare. No, I've got something to tell you—something rather serious. Zena Dare, indeed! What next?"
"Oh dear, are you in a bad temper?"
"How like a woman! No, I'mnotin a bad temper. Talking sense doesn't show that one's in a bad temper. But it's a beastly thing to have to do."
Dorothy sat on both the books, came nearerto Savile, and looked rather pale, tactfully waiting, in silence.
Then suddenly he said in a different tone, quite cheerily——
"That's rather jolly, the way that blue bow is stuck in your hair, Dolly."
"I thought you wanted to talk sense, Savile. What is it? Have you found out—anything?"
"What do you mean? Yes, I've jolly well found out that I can't be engaged to you any more. I've no right to be."
She did not seem overwhelmed by the news.
"Fancy! Just fancy! Oh—I see. Is there some one else? Who is it, Savile?"
He smiled in his most superior way.
"My dear child, people don't go about mentioning women's names. Now look here, Dolly, I meant to be straight, so I told you right out."
She smiled.
"I wonder what sort of girl she is! Well, it can't be Gladys: she's much too hideous. That'sonecomfort!"
"You're right, it can't. Besides, it's not."
"Well, Savile, you're a dear good boy to come and tell me about it. And, the fact is, I was just wanting to tell you myself that perhaps we had better not be engaged any more. Just be pals instead, you know."
"Who's the man?" He spoke sternly.
She began to talk very volubly.
"You know those people whom we met at Dinard last summer, the de Saules? They're French, you know. Well, Madame de Saules,—you can't think how pretty she is,—and dear little Thérèse, and Robert have just come over here for the season. Thérèse is such a darling. You would love her. Only a kid, of course, you know, but...."
"And what price this beastly French boy? Now, listen to me. Foreigners are all rotters. I can tell you that if you're engaged to him you'll live to regret it. I speak as a friend, Dolly."
"Oh dear no! We're not engaged! You don't understand! Private engagements are not the proper thing in France. It isn't done.Ohno! Why, his mother would write to my mother and then he would send a bouquet, or something, and then——"
"A bouquet! By Jove! Why, you're more prehistoric than Aunt William! Well, look here, if this little blighter keeps his place I shan't interfere. But, mind you, if I see the smallest sign of——"
He rose to his feet.
"Of what?" said Dolly, rising and looking angry. "He's a nice, handsome, polite, dear boy. So there!"
"I should only wring his neck, that's all. Good-bye, old girl."
They walked to the gate together.
"It's only for your good, you know, Dolly. I don't mean to be a brute."
"Oh, it's all right, Savile."
"Dolly, dear."
"Yes, Savile."
"I'm awfully fond of you, really."
"Of course, I know, dear boy. Come again when you can, won't you?"
"Won'tI?" said Savile.
Sometimes Sir James would confide in his secretary, and become after dinner—he drank port—pompously communicative on the subject of the alliances his daughter might contract—if she would. As he became more and more confidential in fact, he would grow more and more distant in manner, so that if they began dinner like old friends, they seemed gradually to cool into acquaintances; and at the end of the evening—such an evening!—Woodville felt as if they had barely been introduced, or had met, accidentally, in a railway train. Yet he courted thesetête-à -têteas one perversely courts a certain kind of suffering. At least, Sir James talked on theonlyinteresting subject, and Woodville was anxious to know everything about his rivals; for, though he believed in Sylvia's affection, he was subject to acute, almost morbid, attacks of physical jealousy. To see other men admire her was torture, particularly as he had to efface himself and be treated by her father as a faithful vassal.
And he really disliked deceiving Sir James, whose open liking was evident and who thought him matrimonially as much out of the question as the gardener.
"Hang it all, Woodville's a gentleman!" Sir James would have cried furiously at any suggestion that it was imprudent to leave the young man and Sylvia so much together. Sir James always remembered that Woodville was a gentleman and forgot that he was a man.
Men who indulge in inexpensive cynicism say that women are complex and difficult to understand. This may be true of an ambitious and hard woman, but nothing can be more simple and direct than a woman in love.
Sylvia suffered none of Woodville's complications. She did not see why he should want to run away with her, still less why he should run away from her. Nothing could be wrong in her eyes connected with her love, for it was also her religion. Like most girls who can love at all, her life consisted, in fact, of this emotion only. She might go to the stores, wave her hair, buy new hats, ride in the Park, order dinner for her father (with great care, for he was a gourmet), read innumerable books (generally falling back on Swinburne and Ella Wheeler Wilcox), receive and meet innumerable people, go to the opera, and do many other agreeable, tedious, or trivial things; but her life was her love for Woodville. And she had all the courage and dignity of real self-surrender. Whatever he did was right. Whatever he said was clever. Everything was perfect, so long as he wasthere. To his scruples, despairs, delights, and doubts she always answered that, after all, they were only privately engaged, like heaps of people. And since Woodville had this peculiar—she secretly thought insane—objection to marrying her because she was an heiress and he was poor, then they must wait. Something would happen, and all was sure to come right. She did not wish to tell her father of the understanding at present, because she feared Woodville would probably have to go away at once. They would tell him when she was twenty-one. Only one year, and everything would be open and delightful.
A strong motive that kept Woodville there was jealousy. Sylvia, discreet as she was—no sparkling, teasing coquette—had yet all the irresistible magnetism of a woman who is obviously made for tenderness. But she showed as much deftness in keeping back her admirers as most girls do in attracting them. She had curious deep delicacies; she disliked nothing so much as to feel or show her power as a woman.Pride or vanity was equally out of the question in her love; it was unselfish and yet it was not exacting, as unselfish love generally is. So far as she knew, no unselfishness was required from him. With the unconscious cruelty of innocence she had kept him in this false position for years, looking happily forward to a rose-coloured future.
Was it consistent that, with all his scruples, Woodville had drifted into this romance?
A lovely girl of twenty and a remarkablygood-lookingyoung man of twenty-eight meeting every day, every moment, at every meal—she, romantic; he, the most impressionable of materialists! Surely nothing could be expected but (for once) the obvious!
The Greek banker, Mr. Ridokanaki, said to be one of the richest men in England, had of late begun to pay Sylvia what he considered marked attention. Huge baskets of flowers, sometimes in the form of silver ships, sometimes of wicker wheelbarrows, or of brocaded sedan-chairs, and filled with orchids, lilies, roses, everything that, in the opinion of a middle-aged banker, would be likely to dazzle and delight a nice young girl, were sent periodically to Onslow Square. These floral tributes flattered Sir James and Savile; Woodville said they were hideous; and Sylvia (who neither wrote to thank their sendernor even acknowledged them) always had them conveyed immediately to the housekeeper's room. The Greek's intention of marrying Sylvia was in the air. Woodville, Sylvia, and Savile were perhaps the only people who doubted the event's coming off. Ridokanaki was a small, thin, yet rather noticeable-looking man of fifty, with courteous cosmopolitan manners. He had a triangular face, the details of which were vague though the outline was clear, like a negative that had been left too long in the sun. His slight foreign accent suggested diplomacy rather than the City; he was a man of the world, had travelled everywhere, and had the reputation of knowing absolutely everything. He was firm but kind—the velvet hand beneath the mailed fist—irritatingly tactful, outwardly conventional,raffiné, and rather tedious.
He called occasionally on Thursdays (Sylvia's day). Woodville was usually having jealous palpitations in the library while Ridokanaki talked strong, vague politics with Sir James, and drank weak tea poured out by Sylvia (who always forgot that he never took sugar). After these visits the powerful will of the Greek seemed to have asserted itself without a word. It was his habit to express all his ideas in the most hackneyed phrases except when talking business, so that he seemed surprisingly dull and harmless, considering how much hemustknow, how much he must have seen and done. He had practically made his immense fortune, and many people said that in his own line he was brilliant. It was also often said of him (with surprise), "all the same Ridokanaki is a very simple creature,when you know him." No one, however, had ever yet really known him quite well enough to prove or justify this description.
In the cumbrous continental fashion he was working up to the point of a proposal, and something seemed to herald his future success. The servants were all looking forward to the wedding. Only Price, the footman, sometimes put in a word for poor Mr. Woodville. To say that the romance was known and discussed with freedom in the servant's hall should be needless. The illusion that domestics are ever in the dark about what we fondly suppose to be our little secrets is still immensely prevalent among persons who are young enough to know better.
"All I can say is, that's the man I'd marry ifIwere a young lady, whether or no," Price would say, sometimes adding, "With all his flowers and motors, whatisthe other gent after all but a sort of foreigner? Mr. Woodville is the nephew of an English baronet. Give me an Englishman!"
To this the housemaid would reply—
"Foreigner or no foreigner, Miss Sylvia is nofool; and, mark my words, she would look all right in that house in Grosvenor Square!"
These dark sayings silenced Price, but they did not succeed in chilling his romantic enthusiasm, though the other servants took the more worldly view. Much as they liked Woodville, it could not be forgotten that Ridokanaki had the agreeable habit (at times practised by Jupiter with so much success) of appearing invariably in a shower of gold. Trillionaire though he was, no hard-up nobleman could be more lavish, especially in small things. Nowadays the romance of wealth is more fascinating than the romance of poverty, even in the servants' hall. And Ridokanaki was not, as they remarked, like one of those mere parvenus from South Africa or America. Belonging to an old Greek family of bankers who had been wealthy for generations, he had recently made a personal position that really counted in European politics. It had been rumoured that he might have married into a Royal if not particularly regal family. What he had done for Greece and England was hinted at, not generally known.
Sylvia's impersonal attitude, so obviously genuine, was a refreshing change to a man who had been for years invited with so much assiduity and who knew that he was still regarded in London not without hope as asplendid match. Surely, he would suddenly turn round, settle down, and look for a refined and beautiful wife to be head of his house.
There was a feeling in the air that Sir James's party, with its White Viennese Band, its celebrities, and general elaborate preparations, was really intended to be a background for the declaration. Undoubtedly, he would propose that night. All Sylvia thought about was, that she meant to wear the grey chiffon dress that Woodville liked, and he would think she looked pretty. She intended to conceal the little turquoise heart that she had bought herself (from him) in the Brompton Road in her dress, and to tell him about it afterwards.
To Felicity, the party was, like all entertainments, a kind of arena. What is commonly called flirting, and whatshecalled bowling people over, she regarded as a species of field-sport. Her heart might ache a little under the Watteau-ish dress, because it appeared that nothing on earth would induce darling Chetwode to return from Newmarket. When Sylvia said gently she feared wild horses would not persuade him to come back, Felicity answered, with some show of reason, that wild horses were not likely to try. Indeed, little Felicity was rather depressed. What was the fun ofbowling people over, like so many ninepins, unless dear Chetwode, her usual admiring audience, were there to see them overthrown? However, no doubt, it would be fun. Felicity's view of life was that it was great fun. As she had never had any real troubles, she had not yet discovered that a sense of humour adds acutely to one's sufferings at the time, though it may help recovery. To see the absurdity of a grief increases it. It entirely prevents that real enjoyment in magnifying one's misfortunes in order to excite sympathy—an attribute so often seen in women, from char-woman to duchess. But Felicity was not destined to misfortune. Ridokanaki sometimes compared her to a ray of sunshine, and her sister to a moonbeam. The comparison, if not startlingly original, was fairly just. Felicity retorted by saying that the Greek was like a wax-candle burnt at both ends and in the middle, while Woodville resembled a carefully shaded electric light. She was anxious to know the words in which Ridokanaki would propose, and had already had several rehearsals of the scene with her sister, inducing Sylvia sometimes to refuse and sometimes to accept, just to see how it went. Felicity said that if he were rejected the marriage would in the end be a certainty, as a little difficulty would gratify and surprise him, and make him "bother about it" more. Everything was generally made so easy for him that he wouldcertainly enjoy a little trouble, and the idea of obtaining a girl rather against her inclination would be sure to appeal to him. Opposition in such matters is always attractive to a spirited second-rate man.
All the preparations being complete, Woodville, part of whose absurd duties was to make quantities of unnecessary lists and go over the wine, went, the day before the party, to see a friend of his, where the atmosphere was so entirely different from his own that he regarded these visits as a change of air.
"Mr. Mervyn in?"
"Oh yes, sir. There's a rehearsal to-day. So Mr. Mervyn has lunched early."
A deep voice called from the inner room—
"Hallo, Frank! Come in, old chap!"
Arthur Mervyn had been at school and at Balliol with Woodville, and was one of his favourite companions. The only son of a great tragic actor, he possessed much of the genius of his late father, from whom he inherited, also, his finely-cut features, like some old ivory carving, his coal-black hair, and that sweet, humorous, yet sardonic smile that relieved, like a sparkle in dark waters, his somewhat sinister good looks.
Arthur Mervyn lived in a large, luxuriously furnished flat in Bloomsbury. The decorations were miracles of Morris: obviously they dated back about twenty years ago. Mervyn was not, however, a young man who was keen about his surroundings: he was indifferent to them; they had been chosen by his father, to whom background and all visible things had been of the first importance. The faintly outlined involuted plants on the wall-papers, the black oak friezes and old prints gave Arthur neither more nor less pleasure than he would have received from striped silk, white paint, and other whims of Waring. There were no swords, foils, signed photographs of royalties, pet dogs, or babies, invitation cards on the mantelpiece, nor any of the other luxuries usually seen in illustrated papers as characteristic of "Celebrities at Home". A palm, on its last legs, draped in shabby green silk, was dying by the window. The gloom was mitigated by an air of cosiness. There were books, first-rate and second-hand. Books (their outsides) were a hobby with Mervyn. Smoking in this den seemed as natural as breathing, and rather easier, though its owner never touched tobacco. On the Chesterfield sofa there was one jarring note. It was a new, perfectly clean satin cushion, of a brilliant salmon-pink, covered with embroidered muslin. Evidently it was that well-knownwomanly touch that has such a fatal effect in the rooms of a young man.
Woodville found Mervyn neither studying a part, reading his notices, nor looking in the glass. He had, as usual, the noble air of a student occupied with an Idea, and seemed absorbed.
"I say, Woodville, what do you think I've got?"
"A piece of rope that somebody wasn't hanged with?" asked Woodville. Arthur's curious craze for souvenirs of crime was a standing joke with them both.
"Better than that, old chap!" Mervyn spoke slowly, and always paused between each sentence. "What do you think I did yesterday? You know Jackson—chap who murdered people in a farm? I found out where he went to school in the north of England—and I said to myself—this fellow must have been photographed in a group as a boy."
There was a pause, disproportionately long.
"Sort of thing youwouldsay to yourself," said Woodville a little irritably, as he lit a cigarette.
"Yes!—I took the 2.15—awful train. I went up there and went all over the school, called at the photographers—and actually got the group! And—there you are!"
Mervyn seemed very animated on the subject,and clapped his friend several times on the back with short, delighted laughs.
"By Jove!" said Woodville, looking at the photograph.
"Why do you say 'By Jove!'?" asked Mervyn suspiciously.
"Why? Well! I must saysomething! You always show me things on which no other comment is possible but an exclamation, or you tell me things so unanswerable that there's nothing to say at all."
"So I do," admitted Mervyn, smiling, as he locked away the souvenir. Then he sat down, and his animation dropped to a calmness bordering on apathy.
"And how are you getting on?"
"Not at all."
"Aren't you, though?" Mervyn pushed the matches sympathetically towards his friend, and seemed to fall into a reverie. Then he suddenly said, brightly: "I say, Woodville, you want cheering up. Come with me and see...."
"My dear chap, I'm not in the mood for theatres."
"Frank!" His friend looked at him with hurt reproach. "As though I'dletyou see me in this new thing they're bringing out! No.—But I've got a seat at the Old Bailey for to-morrowmorning to see the trial;—I think I could take you."
Woodville smiled.
"I appreciate immensely your methods of cheering people, Arthur, and I know what that offer is from you. But I really don't care about it."
"Don't you?—Whatdoyou care about?"
Woodville was silent. Then Mervyn said suddenly, "I say, how's Miss Crofton and her sister? I like little Lady Chetwode awfully. She's a pretty little thing, awfully amusing, and quite clever.—She's very keen on crime, too, you know."
"Oh no, nonsense, Arthur! She only pretends to be, to humour you. It's chaff. She hates it, really."
"Hates it! Does she, though?—Well, anyhow she promised to go with me to the Chamber of Horrors one day. Make up a party, you know. And she says she thinks all the criminals there have the most wonderful faces physiognomically; benevolent foreheads, kindly eyes, and that sort of thing; and then she said, well, perhaps any onewouldlook good with such lovely complexions as they have! She saysshewould have been taken in! She would have engaged all the Hannahs—she says that murderesses are always called Hannah—as housekeepers, theylooked so respectable—except for the glassy eye. Oh, we had a long talk. Yes, and she'll bring her sister. You might come, too, one afternoon."
"Oh, of course I'll come. It would be rather jolly," said Woodville.
"Well, when this new thing is once out we'll fix it up, eh? I shall see Lady Chetwode to-morrow—at your party."
"Oh, are you coming?"
"Oh, yes I'm going. Every one's going."
At this moment they heard outside the house a tremendous uproar, the snorting, panting, puffing, and agonised throbbing that could only proceed from a motor in distress.
"Who's that?" said Woodville, going to look out of the window.
Mervyn closed his eyes and leant back in his chair.
"It's nothing," he said. "It's Bertie—Bertie Wilton, you know."
"Oh! Good. Bertie's always exhilarating."
A moment later there entered the room a slim, good-looking young man of about twenty-five years old, whose eyes were very bright and whose clothes were very smart, and who gave the impression of being at once in the highest spirits and at least a year in advance of the very latest expression of the mode. He was very fair, clean shaven, with smooth blond hair, white teeth, and the most mischievous smile in London.
Bertie Wilton had the reputation of being the wittiest of all the dandies, but his one great weakness was a mania for beingdans le mouvement, and a certain contempt for any ideas, however valuable, that had been suggested earlier than, say, yesterday afternoon. Extremely good-natured, lively, and voluble, he was immensely popular, being considered, as indeed he was, one of the last of the conversationalists. He might be frivolous, but he wasalways interesting. He could talk about anything—and he did.
"I didn't know you'd got a motor, Bertie," said Woodville.
Wilton looked at it lovingly out of the window, arranged the gardenia in his button-hole, and said—
"Oh yes! I'm mad on motors. I've had three! This is my new toy. It's a ripper, the onlyrightkind. Itcango, I'll say that for it. I've been fined twice for exceeding the speed limit already."
"But you've never done anything else," said Woodville.
Bertie laughed.
"Ah! no; perhaps not. Well, anyway, I simply love it. I haven't even come here this morningmerelyto see you, Mervyn, or on the off-chance of meeting old Woodville, but simply to try the new Daimler before lunching in it—at least, not exactly lunchinginit, butwithit,—no, no, notwithit, you know what I mean—with the dearest old gentleman who lives in the wilds of West Kensington. He's simply devoted to me. Why, I can't think. But he's got a sort of idea that I saved his life on a hill near Hastings. What really happened was, that his idiot of a chauffeur had utterly smashed up the car, and he and the old gentleman were sitting on theDowns with every probability of remaining there for the rest of their natural lives!"
"And this, I suppose, is where you came in," said Woodville.
"Rather! I was spinning along from Brighton, and I saw those poor creatures in their pitiable position. To hop out of the motor, have an explanation with the old gentleman (who was stone deaf, by the way), to persuade him to come with me, to drive him to hisintenselycomfortable and charming country house in the heart of Hastings, and to send for a surgeon to attend to the internal injuries of the car, was, for me, the work of a moment! I made up quite a romance about the old gentleman. You're a reading man, Woodville, and so you know, from books, that the slightest politeness to an eccentric millionaire sets you up in gilded luxury for life, don't you? I expected, of course, that he would cut off his family with a shilling, and would leave me at theveryleast £20,000 a year. Isn't it funny, my being wrong? It turned out that he neither could nor would do anything of the sort. He was neither eccentric nor a millionaire—though he was very well off and very clever. But, perhaps you ask yourself, had he a lovely daughter, whose hand he would offer me in marriage? Not he! He has only a hideous married son and daughter-in-law who live in Manchester, and allI've got out of the adventure, so far, is lunching with him, and talking to him, and heaps of practice in shouting; he's so deaf. Besides, he's a dear."
"What a wonderful chap you are! The last time I saw you, weren't you secretary to a foreign Duke, with a brilliant diplomatic future before you, or something?" said Woodville, while Mervyn appeared to be lost in thought.
"I know, but that waslastseason! Lots of people are just as keen as I am, you know. Broughton, for instance, has actually invented a car of his own. I once permitted myself to speak rather disrespectfully of Broughton's quite ridiculous car, and, of course, some kind friend told him practically every word I said; and he was quite hurt. We had a regular sort of scene about it."
"What did you say against the car?" said Mervyn judicially, waking up.
"Well, I may be wrong, but it seems to me that it isn't an ideally convenient arrangement (particularly for ladies) to have to climb into a motor, by means of a ladder, over the back! I understood that though Broughton's design had all sorts of capital new arrangements with regard to cushions and clocks and looking-glasses, and mud-guards, he had,mostunfortunately, quite forgotten the door.
"Well, we met at the Bellairs' Fancy Ball (I went as Louis the Nineteenth) last week, you know, and had an explanation, and sort of made it up, but I'm afraid, like that uncomfortable old king, though he smiled at the jest, he never forgave the satire.
"I say, I must fly now. I have to lunch with the old gentleman. Can I drop you anywhere, Woodville?"
"I've got to be at the theatre at one, to rehearse," said Mervyn suddenly.
"Then you must be quick, old boy. It's a quarter to two now," said Bertie.
They took their leave.
After many tender inquiries after its health from the chauffeur, Bertie sprang into the motor with Woodville, and they started off.
"I say, Woodville," began Bertie, as they spun along, "I want to talk about Lady Chetwode. I'm awfully in love with her."
"Didn't know you knew her."
"I don't. That's nothing to do with it. You can be awfully in love with a person you don't know. In fact, I believeIcan be far more seriously devoted to a perfect stranger than to a woman I know personally. But I've often seen her at the Opera. And I'mgoingto know her. I'm going to be brought to your party to-morrow night by Mrs. Ogilvie. Didn't youknow? Tell me, why isn't Chetwode everthere?"
"Don't be an ass! They're devoted to each other. Turtle-doves aren't in it."
Bertie's eyes sparkled.
"Iknow! I suppose he stays away for fear of her getting tired of him. Quaint idea. Never been done before quite like that. Well, it may be very clever, but I shouldn't do it! Frankly, I should always be there or thereabouts, at all risks! You don't seem to understand (knowing them so intimately, of course you wouldn't) what Lady Chetwode is going to be. Why, she's simplytheperson already. I hear of her everywhere, and the sister, Miss Crofton; I saw her too the other night. She's quite beautiful. I don't believe they know what to do with her."
"What on earth do you mean?" said Woodville.
"My dear boy, I have my faults, but I have one little gift, and that is aflairfor success. It will be all very well for Miss Sylvia to marry the Greek man to begin with——"
"Do you propose she should marry any one else to go on with then?"
"Don't be absurd. I mean, of course, that would start her, and so on. He's a friend of exalted personages and that sort of thing, and it would certainly bring her forward. Although I think she could do better. But she ought tocome out in tableaux or something and be really seen, quite soon; while she's a novelty."
"I really think there's something wrong with your tonneau," said Woodville.
Bertie smiled cheerfully. "Don't worry, my chauffeur's one of the best drivers in London. But, about tableaux; next month at Worcester House——"
"Miss Crofton doesn't care about that sort of thing," said Woodville.
"No? I heard she had rather a line of her own. What is her pose? She ought to settle on it. You know there is nothing so uncomfortable as not having settled on one's pose. Oh!" Bertie gave a start. "I beg your pardon. I see the whole thing! But of course! You're in love with her. What a fool I am!"
"You are indeed. I see very little of Miss Crofton. You're generally positive, and always wrong."
"Oh, is it as bad as that? My dear Woodville, I'm so sorry! What a tactless idiot I am! But Lady Chetwode, now. Her great friend, Vera Ogilvie, I know very well indeed. I met her last Tuesday, so she's quite an old friend. Mrs. Ogilvie's the pretty woman who thinks she has a Byzantine profile. She's all over strange jewels and scarabs, and uncut turquoises and things.She has a box on the second tier, and it was there that it all happened."
"That what happened?"
"Why, my falling in love at first sight; I mean, with Lady Chetwode, of course; and what makes me so bad is that I hear of her everywhere. Nothing worse than that! Her frocks and her mots,—it seems she's very clever, I hear, and says the most delightful things. And there's another thing, if I don't make a dash for it this season, I shan't have a chance next. I see that."
"Didn't I tell you she's simply wrapped up in her husband?"
"Of course. That's just the point. I don't know Chetwode, but he's the fellow who has the wonderful collection. First Empire things, and china, and all that. Besides, he goes racing. They say his horse has a chance of winning the Derby. Oh, you don't know what a distinguished family they are! Well, anyhow, you see he's busy, and if theydohave honeymoons every now and then—as no doubt they do—I really hardly see what that matters to me."
"Frankly, nor do I," said Woodville.
"No, indeed; I like it better, because I don't mind telling you I've got heaps of things on just now."
"You look as if you had," said Woodville dryly.
"Is this meant for an attack on my tie? You'll be wearing one like it yourself in a fortnight! Mrs. Ogilvie's great fun. Yesterday she took me with her and a sort of country girl, a clergyman's daughter from Earl's Court, to buy a hat at Lewis's; (for the girl I mean). It wasextraordinary! The girl isn't at all bad-looking, but naturally wears her hairperfectlyflat, with a kind of knob at the back, the wrong kind. On the top of this the milliners stuck, first, the most enormous hat, eccentric beyond the dreams of the Rue de la Paix, all feathers, and said, Oh, quel joli mouvement, Madame! The poor girl, frightened to death, thinking the birds were alive, tore it off. So then they tried on those absurd, tiny, high, little things that require at least twenty-five imitation curls to keep them up, and show them off, and in which poor Miss Winter looked like an escaped lunatic. We tried everything in the shop, and at last Mrs. Ogilvie said, 'Perhaps we had better come again, later in the season, when the hats would be smaller, or not so large.'—Do you know Miss Winter? She hasratherpretty red hair, and a dazed intellectual expression. She's the sort of girl who can only wear a sailor hat (I never saw a sailor in a straw), as they call them, or perhaps something considered picturesque in the suburbs; you know, with skybluecrêpe de chinestrings under the chin. If she'd only been an athletic girl we could have gone straight to Scott's, and then we should have known where we were—but she's artistic, poor thing." Bertie smiled mischievously.
"Your valuable advice doesn't seem to have been much use, then?"
"Rathernot! Especially as Mrs. Ogilvie has this craze about thinking she's Oriental (I wonder who put it into her head), andwouldorder absurd beaded things, like Roman helmets, when of course she'd look delightful in a dark claret-coloured velvet sort of Gainsborough, with dull brown feathers. But women are so perverse. Look how they won't wear black when nothing suits them so well!"
"Won't they? I wonder you don't go into the millinery business. I think you'd do very well."
"Don't talk rot. I'm only interested as an amateur; it's art for art's sake. But Idounderstand frocks. I will say that I think women's dress is the only thing worth being really extravagant on. Don't you?"
"No, I don't."
They were now proceeding down Bond Street at a pace that the crowd compelled to be rather leisurely.
"There's Aunt William in her old-fashioned barouche with the grey horses. It'ssucha comfortto me, always, to see Mrs. Crofton; it makes one feel at least there is something stationary in this changeable world. Who's that boy looking at?—at you? Isn't it the Crofton boy?"
"Yes. Let's stop a minute; I want to speak to him."
Savile, seeing them, crossed the road, and said, before Bertie could begin—
"Extraordinary weather for the time of—year!"
"Come off the roof!" said Woodville, smiling. "What are you doing in Bond Street?"
"Oh, only going to Chappell's, the music shop, to get a song. One of those Sylvia doesn't sing," said Savile, looking straight at him.
"Oh, I know what it is," said Bertie; "it's Pale Hands that Burn, or Tosti's Good-bye!"
"No, it just isn't."
"Then it's something out of The Telephone Girl or something. Do tell us what it is. I hate these musical mysteries."
"It's not a mystery at all. It's Home sweet Home," said Savile.
They tried to persuade him to join them, but he walked off.
"Delightful boy," said Bertie, after a moment. "So correct. I'm sure he'stheperson at home, and spoilt, and does what he likes with them all, doesn't he? Of course, he's the person to befriends with if you want anything fixed up! Well, here we are at Onslow Square. It was jolly seeing you again. You must come for another longer spin soon. Isn't Mervyn a good chap? He's so really distinguished that it wouldn't ever matter what he wore, or where he went, or when. And you'd neverdreamhe was an actor, would you?"
"Not unless you saw him act," said Woodville, getting out.
Sir James was in one of those heroic moods that were peculiarly alarming to his valet. He was so abnormally good-tempered, and seemed so exceedingly elated about something, that it was probable he might suddenly, in Price's pathetic phrase, turn off nasty, or fly out.
As a matter of fact, Sir James was dominated by what are called mixed feelings. The letter that he read and re-read as he walked about his library enchanted him. But the appearance of that library was maddening. It had been transformed into a ladies' cloak-room. On his own writing-desk were an oval silver mirror, a large powder-puff, and several packets of hairpins. All trace of politics seemed to have been completely wiped out. Sir James thoroughly enjoyed picturing to himself Mr. Ridokanaki in this room on the following morning, asking for a blessing, on his knees, and to fancy himselfsaying solemnly, "Take her, my boy, she is yours!" or words to that effect.
Not only had the trillionaire sent Sylvia six feet of flowers in a gun-metal motor-car studded with sapphires, but Sir James, also, had received a respectful request (practically a species of royal command) for consent to his addresses. Ridokanaki stated that he had not as yet, of course, said anything to Sylvia, but proposed, unless her father objected, to try to win her fair hand that very evening. It was a triumph, even for Sylvia. Sir James laughed, as he only laughed when alone. But on looking up from the letter what he saw jarred on him. How he could well imagine the wrap that would be placed carelessly over the bust of Pitt in the corner, and all the cloaks and frivolous chiffons which would lie on that solemn study table! Rage had the upper hand. Sir James broke out, and rang the bell violently.
"Price, where's Miss Crofton? Tell her I want her immediately. This instant! Lose no time. But tell her on no account to hurry. In fact, any time will do as long as she comes at once. Wait a moment, wait a moment. Don't be so precipitate, Price. You leave the room before you hear your orders. I've had to speak to you about this before.... Is Miss Crofton dressed yet?"
"Yes, Sir James. Miss Crofton is quite ready. Lady Chetwode is with her."
"Oh! then tell her it doesn't matter. She needn't trouble."
"Yes, Sir James."
The sisters were standing in Sylvia's pale blue bedroom in front of the long mirror. Felicity's fair, almost silvery hair, puffed out round her wilful little face, looked as though it werepoudré. She wore a striped brocade gown all over rosebuds, and resembled a Dresden china figure. Sylvia's exquisitely modelled face and white shoulders emerged from clouds of grey tulle.
"It's rather a shame, Sylvia; you'll bowl over everybody. Roy Beaumont will say you look mythological. Oh, and poor Mr. Ridokanaki! You'll refuse him to-night, I suppose! What fun it must be to be a pretty girl going about refusing people in conservatories—like a short story in a magazine! I've forgotten how I did it. In a year, darling? Quite. I say, have I overdone the dix-huitième business? Do I look like a fancy ball? Pass me a hairpin, dear. No, don't. I suppose you know that Chetwode has never seen this dress! What do you think ofthat? One would think we were an old married couple."
"Hardly, dear. Put it on to go and meet himat the station," said Sylvia, rather unpractically. "No, you're not too last-century. I think you look more like the next."
"Well, I hope so," said Felicity, fluttering a tiny Pompadour fan; "and if De Valdez says I look like a Marquise of the olden times, as he once did, I simply won't stand it. Let's go down. But first tell me what you will say when Mr. Rid ... Oh, bother, I can't say all that. Let us call him the man. 'Miss Crofton, might I respectfully venture to presume to propose to hope to ask to have a word with you? You are like a grey rose', or something or other."
"Oh, don't be absurd. Sometimes I think the whole thing is all your fancy, and Savile's."
"My fancy! Then what was that enormous, immense thing in the hall I fell over—a sort of tin jewelled bath, crammed with orchids and carnations? Frank Woodville was helping Price to cart it away, and trying to break some of the flowers by accident."
"Oh, was Mr. Woodville taking it away?" Sylvia smiled.
At that moment a firm knock at the door, and the words, "I say, Sylvia," announced Savile's entrance. He walked in slowly, brushed his sisters aside like flies, and stood looking at himself in the long mirror, which reached nearly from the ceiling to the floor. It was a solemnmoment. He was wearing his very first evening-dress suit.
They watched him breathlessly. He carefully kept every trace of expression out of his face. Then he sat down, and said seriously to himself—
"Right as rain. You're all right, girls, too. Rather rot Chetwode not being here. Rather a pose, Felicity not wearing jewels. Why is the Governor in such a state? He's frightfully pleased about something. He flew out at me and said I ought to work for my button-holes, as he did. Really rather rot! I said, 'Well, father, a pink carnation's all right. The King wore one at Newmarket.' He said theKingcould afford it. Cheek! Sylvia, I say, youareall right! I'm going down."
Suddenly remembering his broken heart, Savile paused at the door, caught Felicity's eye, and sighed with an effort, heavily. Then, with his usual air of polite self-restraint, out of proportion to the occasion, he left the room.
Soon the White Viennese Band was tuning up, and the house, which was built like a large bungalow, decorated all over with crimson rambler rosebuds, looked very gay and charming. Sir James beamed as various names, more or less well known in various worlds, were incorrectly announced. Felicity went into a small room that had been arranged for conversation to see through the window that the garden had been artistically darkened for the occasion.
In the room were several men. Roy Beaumont the young inventor with his calm face and inscrutable air was looking up as he spoke to De Valdez, the famous composer. Roy Beaumont wore minute boot-buttons on his cuffs and shirt front.
De Valdez (more difficult to secure at a party than a Prime Minister) was a very handsome, unaffected, genial man who, though an Englishman, had much of the Spanish grandee in his manner and bearing. He had a great contempt for the smaller amenities of dress, and his thick curling hair made more noticeable his likeness to the portraits of Byron.
Felicity at once said, as if in great anxiety—
"Youmustn'tcall me a Marquise of the olden time! Will you?" She smiled at the composer as Roy Beaumont went upstairs, leaving Felicity to begin the evening by trying the room with De Valdez.
Comparatively early, and quite suddenly, the rooms were crowded on the usual principle that no one will arrive till every one is there. They were filled with that inaudible yet loud chatter and the uncomfortable throng which is the one certain sign that a party is a success. The incorrect labelling of celebrities seemed to be an even more entrancing occupation than flirting to the strains of the Viennese Band. A young girl with red hair and eager eye-glasses, who had never in her life left Kensington, except to go to Earl's Court, entreated a dark animated young man who had just been introduced to her, but whose name she did not catch, to "sit down quietly and tell her all about everybody."
He amiably complied.
"That," he said, "that man with the white beard is Henry Arthur James. He writes all those books that no one can understand—and those clever plays, you know, that every one goes to see."
"Does he really? Fancy! Can you point me out the man who wrote, 'Oh the Little Crimson Pansies' and 'The Garden of Alice'? I love his work. It's so weird. F. J. Rivers, you know."
"My dear Miss Winter, what a dreadful thing! I'm afraid you'll be very disappointed. As a matter of fact, I am F. J. Rivers myself. Isn't it a pity? I'm so sorry. And I'm afraid I am not weird. Do forgive me. I'd be weird in a minute if I could. You know that, I'm sure. Don't you?"
"Fancy! Just fancy!" She blushed crimson. "I was being so natural. I had no idea I was talking to a clever person."
"No wonder!"
"You see, I'm interested in things. I particularly love the intellectual atmosphere of this house, and I read all the serious magazines and things, theBookmanand theSaturday Reviewand theSketch; and so on."
"Should you say the atmosphere was really so intellectual here?" said Rivers a little doubtfully.
The Viennese Band was playingCaressesin its most Viennese way; people were gaily coming up from supper or coquettishly going down, or sitting in cornersà deux, dreamily. The heavy scent of red rosebuds hung over all. So becoming was the background at this particular moment that nearly every woman looked fair and every man brave....
"I'm afraid—I mean, I suppose—you take what they call an intelligent interest in the subjects of the day, Miss Winter?"
"I should think so, indeed!" she answered.
"Oh dear!" Rivers looked depressed as he tried to remember what he knew about Radium and Russia.
"Somehow I don't feel frightened ofyou," she said. "Will you take me to have a cup of tea?"
He escorted her downstairs, endeavouring to make up for any disappointment she might feelby pointing out with reckless lavishness Mr. Chamberlain, Beerbohm Tree, Arthur Balfour, Madame Melba, Filsen Young, George Alexander, and Winston Churchill, none of whom, by a curious coincidence, happened to be present.
"Surely I may talk to you a moment," Woodville murmured to Sylvia. "Every one's happy eating, and you needn't bother. Just come out, one second—on the verandah through the little room. After all, I'm a friend of the family!"
"Why, so you are!"
She fluttered out with him through the French window of the little conversation room to a part of the garden that had been boarded and enclosed, forming with its striped awning and Japanese lanterns a kind of verandah. No one was in sight.
"This is the first second to-night I haven't been utterly wretched," said Woodville firmly.
"Oh, Frank! How kind of you to talk like that!"
"How beautiful of you to look like that!—And this is the sort of thing I have to stand—utterly ignored—I suppose you know I worship you? Do you really belong to me, Sylvia?"
"Oh, Frank! Why, Iloveyou!"
"Do you really?"
"Of course. Look here, don't tell any one—noteven yourself—but I'm wearing the little locket after all."
The kiss was short but disturbing. As they came down to earth with a shock, they saw, looking at them steadily through the half-open window, Mr. Ridokanaki. He seemed interested.
At a look from Sylvia Mr. Woodville faded away, feeling as if he were sneaking off. Sylvia went indoors.
"Good evening, Miss Crofton," said the harsh yet sympathetic pleasant voice; "I have been seeking you since this half-hour.... I was coming to ask if I might have the great honour of taking you to supper. Of course, it is an immense privilege—far more than I might expect. Still, may I venture to hope?"
"With pleasure," said Sylvia. She took his arm.
"It is very kind of you, Miss Crofton. What a very interesting face that young man has!"
"Which young man?" Sylvia asked innocently.
"The young man who was in the garden. I am sure he is clever. Your father's—er—secretary, I think?Whatdid you say his name was, again?"
"His name is Mr. Woodville. Yes, I think heis clever. Quite an old friend, you know," Sylvia added rather lamely.
One could see no difference in the Greek, since he talked on in his usual urbane way, and made no allusion of any sort the whole evening, either to the floral tribute he had sent, to his letter to Sir James, or to the little scene he had interrupted.
In the supper-room all was gaiety and laughter.
"How hollow all this sort of thing is, isn't it?" said De Valdez, presenting Felicity with a plover's egg, as he passed carrying a plate laden with them to some one else.
"They do seem rather hungry, don't they? But why aren't you eating any supper, Mr. Wilton?"
Having done her duty to all her old friends, Felicity was occupying herself very congenially by steadily bowling over a completely new young man. It was Bertie Wilton, whom Mrs. Ogilvie had brought on the grounds that he could have danced if it had been a dance, and that he was the son of Lady Nora Wilton. Felicity was very much pleased with his condition. It seemed most promising, considering she had known him about a quarter of an hour.
"Supper! I should think two hot plates, one strawberry, and a sip of champagne more than enough for a person who is falling every moment more and more—Don't take that plover's egg, Lady Chetwode! It isn't fair! You have given me the sole right to provide for you this evening, and that man has no business to come interfering. Let him attend to his own affairs."
"He only dropped one plover's egg on my plate, as an old friend—out of kindness! He meant no harm," pleaded Felicity.
"Yes, that's all very well, but it was a liberty. It implies that I cannot provide you with all that you require. He must learn better." Mr. Wilton firmly removed the plover's egg and placed it on the next table, at which Rivers and the red-haired girl were still chattering volubly. Rivers immediately brought it back as lost property, courteously presenting it to Felicity on a silver salver.
"This is becoming unbearable! I shall have to write to theTimes." Wilton gave the egg to a waiter and a furious glance at Rivers, and then sat down again. He was remarkably good-looking with his sparkling blue eyes and mischievous expression, and Felicity glanced at him with approval. He would do very well—for the evening. He was quite worth powder—andshot. At least, he was, to her, a perfect stranger, and there was a great dearth of spring novelties at the party to-night.
"I've been waiting for you for years," said Bertie Wilton in a soft, low, impressive voice.
"Fancy! How patient of you!—How did you know it was me?"
"Oh, instantaneous-sympathy, I suppose."
"On your side, do you mean? I should call it telepathy, or perhaps—conceit."
"Call it what you like. But how is it you're so wonderful? Tell me that."
"I can't think," she said dreamily.
"I'm certain I met you in a previous existence," continued the young man.
"What a good memory you must have, Mr. Wilton! It's as much as I can do to remember the people I meet inthisexistence. I believe I saw you in Mrs. Ogilvie's box atMadame Butterfly."
"I know, I saw you from there. I was rooted to the spot—I believe that's the right expression, though it sounds rather agricultural—while at the same time you might have knocked me down with a feather! It's really true, you might. But I know you wouldn't have, you're far too good and kind."
"I don't think Ihadany feathers with me," said Felicity.
Bertie went on. "But this life is so short.—Do you think it's worth it?—(Do have some mayonnaise.)—I mean the kind of thing one does—waiting, waiting—at last asking, for instance, to call on your day—only meeting in throngs—perhaps not getting a chance, for months, to tell——"
"I suppose lifeisrather long, isn't it?" Felicity said, as a concession.
"Then I may come and see you the day after to-morrow?" he asked.
"Not till the day after to-morrow!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Why wait so long?"
"At what time?" he persisted, smiling.