foreseen, and he was feeling baffled. What was the next step? He
had smoked many pipes in the endeavour to find an answer to this
problem, and was lighting another when the door-bell rang.
He opened the door and found himself confronting an extraordinarily
tall and thin young man in evening-dress.
Lord Dawlish was a little startled. He had taken it for granted,
when the bell rang, that his visitor was Tom, the liftman from
downstairs, a friendly soul who hailed from London and had been
dropping in at intervals during the past two days to acquire the
latest news from his native land. He stared at this changeling
inquiringly. The solution of the mystery came with the stranger's
first words -
'Is Gates in?'
He spoke eagerly, as if Gates were extremely necessary to his
well-being. It distressed Lord Dawlish to disappoint him, but
there was nothing else to be done.
'Gates is in London,' he said.
'What! When did he go there?'
'About four months ago.'
'May I come in a minute?'
'Yes, rather, do.'
He led the way into the sitting-room. The stranger gave abruptly
in the middle, as if he were being folded up by some invisible
agency, and in this attitude sank into a chair, where he lay back
looking at Bill over his knees, like a sorrowful sheep peering
over a sharp-pointed fence.
'You're from England, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'Been in New York long?'
'Only a couple of days.'
The stranger folded himself up another foot or so until his knees
were higher than his head, and lit a cigarette.
'The curse of New York,' he said, mournfully, 'is the way
everything changes in it. You can't take your eyes off it for a
minute. The population's always shifting. It's like a railway
station. You go away for a bit and come back and try to find your
old pals, and they're all gone: Ike's in Arizona, Mike's in a
sanatorium, Spike's in jail, and nobody seems to know where the
rest of them have got to. I came up from the country two days ago,
expecting to find the old gang along Broadway the same as ever,
and I'm dashed if I've been able to put my hands on one of them!
Not a single, solitary one of them! And it's only six months since
I was here last.'
Lord Dawlish made sympathetic noises.
'Of course,' proceeded the other, 'the time of year may have
something to do with it. Living down in the country you lose count
of time, and I forgot that it was July, when people go out of the
city. I guess that must be what happened. I used to know all sorts
of fellows, actors and fellows like that, and they're all away
somewhere. I tell you,' he said, with pathos, 'I never knew I
could be so infernally lonesome as I have been these last two
days. If I had known what a rotten time I was going to have I
would never have left Brookport.'
'Brookport!'
'It's a place down on Long Island.'
Bill was not by nature a plotter, but the mere fact of travelling
under an assumed name had developed a streak of wariness in him.
He checked himself just as he was about to ask his companion if he
happened to know a Miss Elizabeth Boyd, who also lived at
Brookport. It occurred to him that the question would invite a
counter-question as to his own knowledge of Miss Boyd, and he knew
that he would not be able to invent a satisfactory answer to that
offhand.
'This evening,' said the thin young man, resuming his dirge, 'I
was sweating my brain to try to think of somebody I could hunt up
in this ghastly, deserted city. It isn't so easy, you know, to
think of fellows' names and addresses. I can get the names all
right, but unless the fellow's in the telephone-book, I'm done.
Well, I was trying to think of some of my pals who might still be
around the place, and I remembered Gates. Remembered his address,
too, by a miracle. You're a pal of his, of course?'
'Yes, I knew him in London.'
'Oh, I see. And when you came over here he lent you his flat? By
the way, I didn't get your name?'
'My name's Chalmers.'
'Well, as I say, I remembered Gates and came down here to look him
up. We used to have a lot of good times together a year ago. And
now he's gone too!'
'Did you want to see him about anything important?'
'Well, it's important to me. I wanted him to come out to supper.
You see, it's this way: I'm giving supper to-night to a girl who's
in that show at the Forty-ninth Street Theatre, a Miss Leonard,
and she insists on bringing a pal. She says the pal is a good
sport, which sounds all right - ' Bill admitted that it sounded all
right. 'But it makes the party three. And of all the infernal
things a party of three is the ghastliest.'
Having delivered himself of this undeniable truth the stranger
slid a little farther into his chair and paused. 'Look here, what
are you doing to-night?' he said.
'I was thinking of going to bed.'
'Going to bed!' The stranger's voice was shocked, as if he had
heard blasphemy. 'Going to bed at half-past ten in New York! My
dear chap, what you want is a bit of supper. Why don't you come
along?'
Amiability was, perhaps, the leading quality of Lord Dawlish's
character. He did not want to have to dress and go out to supper,
but there was something almost pleading in the eyes that looked at
him between the sharply-pointed knees.
'It's awfully good of you - ' He hesitated.
'Not a bit; I wish you would. You would be a life-saver.'
Bill felt that he was in for it. He got up.
'You will?' said the other. 'Good boy! You go and get into some
clothes and come along. I'm sorry, what did you say your name
was?'
'Chalmers.'
'Mine's Boyd - Nutcombe Boyd.'
'Boyd!' cried Bill.
Nutty took his astonishment, which was too great to be concealed,
as a compliment. He chuckled.
'I thought you would know the name if you were a pal of Gates's. I
expect he's always talking about me. You see, I was pretty well
known in this old place before I had to leave it.'
Bill walked down the long passage to his bedroom with no trace of
the sleepiness which had been weighing on him five minutes before.
He was galvanized by a superstitious thrill. It was fate,
Elizabeth Boyd's brother turning up like this and making friendly
overtures right on top of that letter from her. This astonishing
thing could not have been better arranged if he had planned it
himself. From what little he had seen of Nutty he gathered that
the latter was not hard to make friends with. It would be a simple
task to cultivate his acquaintance. And having done so, he could
renew negotiations with Elizabeth. The desire to rid himself of
half the legacy had become a fixed idea with Bill. He had the
impression that he could not really feel clean again until he had
made matters square with his conscience in this respect. He felt
that he was probably a fool to take that view of the thing, but
that was the way he was built and there was no getting away from
it.
This irruption of Nutty Boyd into his life was an omen. It meant
that all was not yet over. He was conscious of a mild surprise
that he had ever intended to go to bed. He felt now as if he never
wanted to go to bed again. He felt exhilarated.
In these days one cannot say that a supper-party is actually given
in any one place. Supping in New York has become a peripatetic
pastime. The supper-party arranged by Nutty Boyd was scheduled to
start at Reigelheimer's on Forty-second Street, and it was there
that the revellers assembled.
Nutty and Bill had been there a few minutes when Miss Daisy
Leonard arrived with her friend. And from that moment Bill was
never himself again.
The Good Sport was, so to speak, an outsize in Good Sports. She
loomed up behind the small and demure Miss Leonard like a liner
towed by a tug. She was big, blonde, skittish, and exuberant; she
wore a dress like the sunset of a fine summer evening, and she
effervesced with spacious good will to all men. She was one of
those girls who splash into public places like stones into quiet
pools. Her form was large, her eyes were large, her teeth were
large, and her voice was large. She overwhelmed Bill. She hit his
astounded consciousness like a shell. She gave him a buzzing in
the ears. She was not so much a Good Sport as some kind of an
explosion.
He was still reeling from the spiritual impact with this female
tidal wave when he became aware, as one who, coming out of a
swoon, hears voices faintly, that he was being addressed by Miss
Leonard. To turn from Miss Leonard's friend to Miss Leonard
herself was like hearing the falling of gentle rain after a
thunderstorm. For a moment he revelled in the sense of being
soothed; then, as he realized what she was saying, he started
violently. Miss Leonard was looking at him curiously.
'I beg your pardon?' said Bill.
'I'm sure I've met you before, Mr Chalmers.'
'Er - really?'
'But I can't think where.'
'I'm sure,' said the Good Sport, languishingly, like a sentimental
siege-gun, 'that if I had ever met Mr Chalmers before I shouldn't
have forgotten him.'
'You're English, aren't you?' asked Miss Leonard.
'Yes.'
The Good Sport said she was crazy about Englishmen.
'I thought so from your voice.'
The Good Sport said that she was crazy about the English accent.
'It must have been in London that I met you. I was in the revue at
the Alhambra last year.'
'By George, I wish I had seen you!' interjected the infatuated
Nutty.
The Good Sport said that she was crazy about London.
'I seem to remember,' went on Miss Leonard, 'meeting you out at
supper. Do you know a man named Delaney in the Coldstream Guards?'
Bill would have liked to deny all knowledge of Delaney, though the
latter was one of his best friends, but his natural honesty
prevented him.
'I'm sure I met you at a supper he gave at Oddy's one Friday
night. We all went on to Covent Garden. Don't you remember?'
'Talking of supper,' broke in Nutty, earning Bill's hearty
gratitude thereby, 'where's the dashed head-waiter? I want to find
my table.'
He surveyed the restaurant with a melancholy eye.
'Everything changed!' He spoke sadly, as Ulysses might have done
when his boat put in at Ithaca. 'Every darned thing different
since I was here last. New waiter, head-waiter I never saw before
in my life, different-coloured carpet - '
'Cheer up, Nutty, old thing!' said Miss Leonard. 'You'll feel
better when you've had something to eat. I hope you had the sense
to tip the head-waiter, or there won't be any table. Funny how
these places go up and down in New York. A year ago the whole
management would turn out and kiss you if you looked like spending
a couple of dollars here. Now it costs the earth to get in at
all.'
'Why's that?' asked Nutty.
'Lady Pauline Wetherby, of course. Didn't you know this was where
she danced?'
'Never heard of her,' said Nutty, in a sort of ecstasy of wistful
gloom. 'That will show you how long I've been away. Who is she?'
Miss Leonard invoked the name of Mike.
'Don't you ever get the papers in your village, Nutty?'
'I never read the papers. I don't suppose I've read a paper for
years. I can't stand 'em. Who is Lady Pauline Wetherby?'
'She does Greek dances - at least, I suppose they're Greek. They
all are nowadays, unless they're Russian. She's an English
peeress.'
Miss Leonard's friend said she was crazy about these picturesque
old English families; and they went in to supper.
* * * * *
Looking back on the evening later and reviewing its leading
features, Lord Dawlish came to the conclusion that he never
completely recovered from the first shock of the Good Sport. He
was conscious all the time of a dream-like feeling, as if he were
watching himself from somewhere outside himself. From some
conning-tower in this fourth dimension he perceived himself eating
broiled lobster and drinking champagne and heard himself bearing
an adequate part in the conversation; but his movements were
largely automatic.
Time passed. It seemed to Lord Dawlish, watching from without,
that things were livening up. He seemed to perceive a quickening
of the _tempo_ of the revels, an added abandon. Nutty was
getting quite bright. He had the air of one who recalls the good
old days, of one who in familiar scenes re-enacts the joys of his
vanished youth. The chastened melancholy induced by many months of
fetching of pails of water, of scrubbing floors with a mop, and of
jumping like a firecracker to avoid excited bees had been purged
from him by the lights and the music and the wine. He was telling
a long anecdote, laughing at it, throwing a crust of bread at an
adjacent waiter, and refilling his glass at the same time. It is
not easy to do all these things simultaneously, and the fact that
Nutty did them with notable success was proof that he was picking
up.
Miss Daisy Leonard was still demure, but as she had just slipped a
piece of ice down the back of Nutty's neck one may assume that she
was feeling at her ease and had overcome any diffidence or shyness
which might have interfered with her complete enjoyment of the
festivities. As for the Good Sport, she was larger, blonder, and
more exuberant than ever and she was addressing someone as 'Bill'.
Perhaps the most remarkable phenomenon of the evening, as it
advanced, was the change it wrought in Lord Dawlish's attitude
toward this same Good Sport. He was not conscious of the beginning
of the change; he awoke to the realization of it suddenly. At the
beginning of supper his views on her had been definite and clear.
When they had first been introduced to each other he had had a
stunned feeling that this sort of thing ought not to be allowed at
large, and his battered brain had instinctively recalled that line
of Tennyson: 'The curse is come upon me.' But now, warmed with
food and drink and smoking an excellent cigar, he found that a
gentler, more charitable mood had descended upon him.
He argued with himself in extenuation of the girl's peculiar
idiosyncrasies. Was it, he asked himself, altogether her fault
that she was so massive and spoke as if she were addressing an
open-air meeting in a strong gale? Perhaps it was hereditary.
Perhaps her father had been a circus giant and her mother the
strong woman of the troupe. And for the unrestraint of her manner
defective training in early girlhood would account. He began to
regard her with a quiet, kindly commiseration, which in its turn
changed into a sort of brotherly affection. He discovered that he
liked her. He liked her very much. She was so big and jolly and
robust, and spoke in such a clear, full voice. He was glad that
she was patting his hand. He was glad that he had asked her to
call him Bill.
People were dancing now. It has been claimed by patriots that
American dyspeptics lead the world. This supremacy, though partly
due, no doubt, to vast supplies of pie absorbed in youth, may be
attributed to a certain extent also to the national habit of
dancing during meals. Lord Dawlish had that sturdy reverence for
his interior organism which is the birthright of every Briton. And
at the beginning of supper he had resolved that nothing should
induce him to court disaster in this fashion. But as the time went
on he began to waver.
The situation was awkward. Nutty and Miss Leonard were repeatedly
leaving the table to tread the measure, and on these occasions the
Good Sport's wistfulness was a haunting reproach. Nor was the
spectacle of Nutty in action without its effect on Bill's
resolution. Nutty dancing was a sight to stir the most stolid.
Bill wavered. The music had started again now, one of those
twentieth-century eruptions of sound that begin like a train going
through a tunnel and continue like audible electric shocks, that
set the feet tapping beneath the table and the spine thrilling
with an unaccustomed exhilaration. Every drop of blood in his body
cried to him 'Dance!' He could resist no longer.
'Shall we?' he said.
Bill should not have danced. He was an estimable young man,
honest, amiable, with high ideals. He had played an excellent game
of football at the university; his golf handicap was plus two; and
he was no mean performer with the gloves. But we all of us have
our limitations, and Bill had his. He was not a good dancer. He
was energetic, but he required more elbow room than the ordinary
dancing floor provides. As a dancer, in fact, he closely resembled
a Newfoundland puppy trying to run across a field.
It takes a good deal to daunt the New York dancing man, but the
invasion of the floor by Bill and the Good Sport undoubtedly
caused a profound and even painful sensation. Linked together they
formed a living projectile which might well have intimidated the
bravest. Nutty was their first victim. They caught him in
mid-step - one of those fancy steps which he was just beginning to
exhume from the cobwebbed recesses of his memory - and swept him
away. After which they descended resistlessly upon a stout
gentleman of middle age, chiefly conspicuous for the glittering
diamonds which he wore and the stoical manner in which he danced
to and fro on one spot of not more than a few inches in size in
the exact centre of the room. He had apparently staked out a claim
to this small spot, a claim which the other dancers had decided to
respect; but Bill and the Good Sport, coming up from behind, had
him two yards away from it at the first impact. Then, scattering
apologies broadcast like a medieval monarch distributing largesse,
Bill whirled his partner round by sheer muscular force and began
what he intended to be a movement toward the farther corner,
skirting the edge of the floor. It was his simple belief that
there was more safety there than in the middle.
He had not reckoned with Heinrich Joerg. Indeed, he was not aware
of Heinrich Joerg's existence. Yet fate was shortly to bring them
together, with far-reaching results. Heinrich Joerg had left the
Fatherland a good many years before with the prudent purpose of
escaping military service. After various vicissitudes in the land
of his adoption - which it would be extremely interesting to
relate, but which must wait for a more favourable opportunity - he
had secured a useful and not ill-recompensed situation as one of
the staff of Reigelheimer's Restaurant. He was, in point of fact,
a waiter, and he comes into the story at this point bearing a tray
full of glasses, knives, forks, and pats of butter on little
plates. He was setting a table for some new arrivals, and in order
to obtain more scope for that task he had left the crowded aisle
beyond the table and come round to the edge of the dancing-floor.
He should not have come out on to the dancing-floor. In another
moment he was admitting that himself. For just as he was lowering
his tray and bending over the table in the pursuance of his
professional duties, along came Bill at his customary high rate
of speed, propelling his partner before him, and for the first
time since he left home Heinrich was conscious of a regret that he
had done so. There are worse things than military service!
It was the table that saved Bill. He clutched at it and it
supported him. He was thus enabled to keep the Good Sport from
falling and to assist Heinrich to rise from the morass of glasses,
knives, and pats of butter in which he was wallowing. Then, the
dance having been abandoned by mutual consent, he helped his now
somewhat hysterical partner back to their table.
Remorse came upon Bill. He was sorry that he had danced; sorry
that he had upset Heinrich; sorry that he had subjected the Good
Sport's nervous system to such a strain; sorry that so much glass
had been broken and so many pats of butter bruised beyond repair.
But of one thing, even in that moment of bleak regrets, he was
distinctly glad, and that was that all these things had taken
place three thousand miles away from Claire Fenwick. He had not
been appearing at his best, and he was glad that Claire had not
seen him.
As he sat and smoked the remains of his cigar, while renewing his
apologies and explanations to his partner and soothing the ruffled
Nutty with well-chosen condolences, he wondered idly what Claire
was doing at that moment.
Claire at that moment, having been an astonished eye-witness of
the whole performance, was resuming her seat at a table at the
other end of the room.
7
There were two reasons why Lord Dawlish was unaware of Claire
Fenwick's presence at Reigelheimer's Restaurant: Reigelheimer's is
situated in a basement below a ten-storey building, and in order
to prevent this edifice from falling into his patrons' soup the
proprietor had been obliged to shore up his ceiling with massive
pillars. One of these protruded itself between the table which
Nutty had secured for his supper-party and the table at which
Claire was sitting with her friend, Lady Wetherby, and her steamer
acquaintance, Mr Dudley Pickering. That was why Bill had not seen
Claire from where he sat; and the reason that he had not seen her
when he left his seat and began to dance was that he was not one
of your dancers who glance airily about them. When Bill danced he
danced.
He would have been stunned with amazement if he had known that
Claire was at Reigelheimer's that night. And yet it would have
been remarkable, seeing that she was the guest of Lady Wetherby,
if she had not been there. When you have travelled three thousand
miles to enjoy the hospitality of a friend who does near-Greek
dances at a popular restaurant, the least you can do is to go to
the restaurant and watch her step. Claire had arrived with Polly
Wetherby and Mr Dudley Pickering at about the time when Nutty, his
gloom melting rapidly, was instructing the waiter to open the
second bottle.
Of Claire's movements between the time when she secured her ticket
at the steamship offices at Southampton and the moment when she
entered Reigelheimer's Restaurant it is not necessary to give a
detailed record. She had had the usual experiences of the ocean
voyager. She had fed, read, and gone to bed. The only notable
event in her trip had been her intimacy with Mr Dudley Pickering.
Dudley Pickering was a middle-aged Middle Westerner, who by thrift
and industry had amassed a considerable fortune out of automobiles.
Everybody spoke well of Dudley Pickering. The papers spoke well of
him, Bradstreet spoke well of him, and he spoke well of himself. On
board the liner he had poured the saga of his life into Claire's
attentive ears, and there was a gentle sweetness in her manner which
encouraged Mr Pickering mightily, for he had fallen in love with
Claire on sight.
It would seem that a schoolgirl in these advanced days would know
what to do when she found that a man worth millions was in love
with her; yet there were factors in the situation which gave
Claire pause. Lord Dawlish, of course, was one of them. She had
not mentioned Lord Dawlish to Mr Pickering, and - doubtless lest
the sight of it might pain him - she had abstained from wearing her
engagement ring during the voyage. But she had not completely lost
sight of the fact that she was engaged to Bill. Another thing that
caused her to hesitate was the fact that Dudley Pickering, however
wealthy, was a most colossal bore. As far as Claire could
ascertain on their short acquaintance, he had but one subject of
conversation - automobiles.
To Claire an automobile was a shiny thing with padded seats, in
which you rode if you were lucky enough to know somebody who owned
one. She had no wish to go more deeply into the matter. Dudley
Pickering's attitude towards automobiles, on the other hand, more
nearly resembled that of a surgeon towards the human body. To him
a car was something to dissect, something with an interior both
interesting to explore and fascinating to talk about. Claire
listened with a radiant display of interest, but she had her
doubts as to whether any amount of money would make it worth while
to undergo this sort of thing for life. She was still in this
hesitant frame of mind when she entered Reigelheimer's Restaurant,
and it perturbed her that she could not come to some definite
decision on Mr Pickering, for those subtle signs which every woman
can recognize and interpret told her that the latter, having paved
the way by talking machinery for a week, was about to boil over
and speak of higher things.
At the very next opportunity, she was certain, he intended to
propose.
The presence of Lady Wetherby acted as a temporary check on the
development of the situation, but after they had been seated at
their table a short time the lights of the restaurant were
suddenly lowered, a coloured limelight became manifest near the
roof, and classical music made itself heard from the fiddles in
the orchestra.
You could tell it was classical, because the banjo players were
leaning back and chewing gum; and in New York restaurants only
death or a classical speciality can stop banjoists.
There was a spatter of applause, and Lady Wetherby rose.
'This,' she explained to Claire, 'is where I do my stunt. Watch
it. I invented the steps myself. Classical stuff. It's called the
Dream of Psyche.'
It was difficult for one who knew her as Claire did to associate
Polly Wetherby with anything classical. On the road, in England,
when they had been fellow-members of the Number Two company of
_The Heavenly Waltz_, Polly had been remarkable chiefly for a
fund of humorous anecdote and a gift, amounting almost to genius,
for doing battle with militant landladies. And renewing their
intimacy after a hiatus of a little less than a year Claire had
found her unchanged.
It was a truculent affair, this Dream of Psyche. It was not so much
dancing as shadow boxing. It began mildly enough to the accompaniment
of _pizzicato_ strains from the orchestra - Psyche in her training
quarters. _Rallentando_ - Psyche punching the bag. _Diminuendo_ - Psyche
using the medicine ball. _Presto_ - Psyche doing road work. _Forte_ - The
night of the fight. And then things began to move to a climax. With
the fiddles working themselves to the bone and the piano bounding
under its persecutor's blows, Lady Wetherby ducked, side-stepped,
rushed, and sprang, moving her arms in a manner that may have been
classical Greek, but to the untrained eye looked much more like the
last round of some open-air bout.
It was half-way through the exhibition, when you could smell the
sawdust and hear the seconds shouting advice under the ropes, that
Claire, who, never having seen anything in her life like this
extraordinary performance, had been staring spellbound, awoke to
the realization that Dudley Pickering was proposing to her. It
required a woman's intuition to divine this fact, for Mr Pickering
was not coherent. He did not go straight to the point. He rambled.
But Claire understood, and it came to her that this thing had
taken her before she was ready. In a brief while she would have to
give an answer of some sort, and she had not clearly decided what
answer she meant to give.
Then, while he was still skirting his subject, before he had
wandered to what he really wished to say, the music stopped, the
applause broke out again, and Lady Wetherby returned to the table
like a pugilist seeking his corner at the end of a round. Her face
was flushed and she was breathing hard.
'They pay me money for that!' she observed, genially. 'Can you
beat it?'
The spell was broken. Mr Pickering sank back in his chair in a
punctured manner. And Claire, making monosyllabic replies to her
friend's remarks, was able to bend her mind to the task of finding
out how she stood on this important Pickering issue. That he would
return to the attack as soon as possible she knew; and the next
time she must have her attitude clearly defined one way or the
other.
Lady Wetherby, having got the Dance of Psyche out of her system,
and replaced it with a glass of iced coffee, was inclined for
conversation.
'Algie called me up on the phone this evening, Claire.'
'Yes?'
Claire was examining Mr Pickering with furtive side glances. He
was not handsome, nor, on the other hand, was he repulsive.
'Undistinguished' was the adjective that would have described him.
He was inclined to stoutness, but not unpardonably so; his hair
was thin, but he was not aggressively bald; his face was dull, but
certainly not stupid. There was nothing in his outer man which his
millions would not offset. As regarded his other qualities, his
conversation was certainly not exhilarating. But that also was
not, under certain conditions, an unforgivable thing. No, looking
at the matter all round and weighing it with care, the real
obstacle, Claire decided, was not any quality or lack of qualities
in Dudley Pickering - it was Lord Dawlish and the simple fact that
it would be extremely difficult, if she discarded him in favour of a
richer man without any ostensible cause, to retain her self-respect.
'I think he's weakening.'
'Yes?'
Yes, that was the crux of the matter. She wanted to retain her
good opinion of herself. And in order to achieve that end it was
essential that she find some excuse, however trivial, for breaking
off the engagement.
'Yes?'
A waiter approached the table.
'Mr Pickering!'
The thwarted lover came to life with a start.
'Eh?'
'A gentleman wishes to speak to you on the telephone.'
'Oh, yes. I was expecting a long-distance call, Lady Wetherby, and
left word I would be here. Will you excuse me?'
Lady Wetherby watched him as he bustled across the room.
'What do you think of him, Claire?'
'Mr Pickering? I think he's very nice.'
'He admires you frantically. I hoped he would. That's why I wanted
you to come over on the same ship with him.'
'Polly! I had no notion you were such a schemer.'
'I would just love to see you two fix it up,' continued Lady
Wetherby, earnestly. 'He may not be what you might call a genius,
but he's a darned good sort; and all his millions help, don't
they? You don't want to overlook these millions, Claire!'
'I do like Mr Pickering.'
'Claire, he asked me if you were engaged.'
'What!'
'When I told him you weren't, he beamed. Honestly, you've only got
to lift your little finger and - Oh, good Lord, there's Algie!'
Claire looked up. A dapper, trim little man of about forty was
threading his way among the tables in their direction. It was a
year since Claire had seen Lord Wetherby, but she recognized him
at once. He had a red, weather-beaten face with a suspicion of
side-whiskers, small, pink-rimmed eyes with sandy eyebrows, the
smoothest of sandy hair, and a chin so cleanly shaven that it was
difficult to believe that hair had ever grown there. Although his
evening-dress was perfect in every detail, he conveyed a subtle
suggestion of horsiness. He reached the table and sat down without
invitation in the vacant chair.
'Pauline!' he said, sorrowfully.
'Algie!' said Lady Wetherby, tensely. 'I don't know what you've
come here for, and I don't remember asking you to sit down and put
your elbows on that table, but I want to begin by saying that I
will not be called Pauline. My name's Polly. You've got a way of
saying Pauline, as if it were a gentlemanly cuss-word, that makes
me want to scream. And while you're about it, why don't you say
how-d'you-do to Claire? You ought to remember her, she was my
bridesmaid.'
'How do you do, Miss Fenwick. Of course, I remember you perfectly.
I'm glad to see you again.'
'And now, Algie, what is it? Why have you come here?' Lord
Wetherby looked doubtfully at Claire. 'Oh, that's all right,' said
Lady Wetherby. 'Claire knows all about it - I told her.'
'Then I appeal to Miss Fenwick, if, as you say, she knows all the
facts of the case, to say whether it is reasonable to expect a man
of my temperament, a nervous, highly-strung artist, to welcome the
presence of snakes at the breakfast-table. I trust that I am not
an unreasonable man, but I decline to admit that a long, green
snake is a proper thing to keep about the house.'
'You had no right to strike the poor thing.'
'In that one respect I was perhaps a little hasty. I happened to
be stirring my tea at the moment his head rose above the edge of
the table. I was not entirely myself that morning. My nerves were
somewhat disordered. I had lain awake much of the night planning a
canvas.'
'Planning a what?'
'A canvas - a picture.'
Lady Wetherby turned to Claire.
'I want you to listen to Algie, Claire. A year ago he did not know
one end of a paint-brush from the other. He didn't know he had any
nerves. If you had brought him the artistic temperament on a plate
with a bit of watercress round it, he wouldn't have recognized it.
And now, just because he's got a studio, he thinks he has a right
to go up in the air if you speak to him suddenly and run about the
place hitting snakes with teaspoons as if he were Michelangelo!'
'You do me an injustice. It is true that as an artist I developed
late - But why should we quarrel? If it will help to pave the way
to a renewed understanding between us, I am prepared to apologize
for striking Clarence. That is conciliatory, I think, Miss
Fenwick?'
'Very.'
'Miss Fenwick considers my attitude conciliatory.'
'It's something,' admitted Lady Wetherby, grudgingly.
Lord Wetherby drained the whisky-and-soda which Dudley Pickering
had left behind him, and seemed to draw strength from it, for he
now struck a firmer note.
'But, though expressing regret for my momentary loss of self-control,
I cannot recede from the position I have taken up as regards the
essential unfitness of Clarence's presence in the home.'
Lady Wetherby looked despairingly at Claire.
'The very first words I heard Algie speak, Claire, were at
Newmarket during the three o'clock race one May afternoon. He was
hanging over the rail, yelling like an Indian, and what he was
yelling was, "Come on, you blighter, come on! By the living jingo,
Brickbat wins in a walk!" And now he's talking about receding from
essential positions! Oh, well, he wasn't an artist then!'
'My dear Pau - Polly. I am purposely picking my words on the
present occasion in order to prevent the possibility of further
misunderstandings. I consider myself an ambassador.'
'You would be shocked if you knew what I consider you!'
'I am endeavouring to the best of my ability - '
'Algie, listen to me! I am quite calm at present, but there's no
knowing how soon I may hit you with a chair if you don't come to
earth quick and talk like an ordinary human being. What is it that
you are driving at?'
'Very well, it's this: I'll come home if you get rid of that
snake.'
'Never!'
'It's surely not much to ask of you, Polly?'
'I won't!'
Lord Wetherby sighed.
'When I led you to the altar,' he said, reproachfully, 'you
promised to love, honour, and obey me. I thought at the time it
was a bit of swank!'
Lady Wetherby's manner thawed. She became more friendly.
'When you talk like that, Algie, I feel there's hope for you after
all. That's how you used to talk in the dear old days when you'd
come to me to borrow half-a-crown to put on a horse! Listen, now
that at last you seem to be getting more reasonable; I wish I
could make you understand that I don't keep Clarence for sheer
love of him. He's a commercial asset. He's an advertisement. You
must know that I have got to have something to - '
'I admit that may be so as regards the monkey, Eustace. Monkeys as
aids to publicity have, I believe, been tested and found valuable
by other artistes. I am prepared to accept Eustace, but the snake
is worthless.'
'Oh, you don't object to Eustace, then?'
'I do strongly, but I concede his uses.'
'You would live in the same house as Eustace?'
'I would endeavour to do so. But not in the same house as Eustace
and Clarence.'
There was a pause.
'I don't know that I'm so stuck on Clarence myself,' said Lady
Wetherby, weakly.
'My darling!'
'Wait a minute. I've not said I would get rid of him.'
'But you will?'
Lady Wetherby's hesitation lasted but a moment. 'All right, Algie.
I'll send him to the Zoo to-morrow.'
'My precious pet!'
A hand, reaching under the table, enveloped Claire's in a loving
clasp.
From the look on Lord Wetherby's face she supposed that he was
under the delusion that he was bestowing this attention on his
wife.
'You know, Algie, darling,' said Lady Wetherby, melting completely,
'when you get that yearning note in your voice I just flop and take
the full count.'
'My sweetheart, when I saw you doing that Dream of
What's-the-girl's-bally-name dance just now, it was all I could
do to keep from rushing out on to the floor and hugging you.'
'Algie!'
'Polly!'
'Do you mind letting go of my hand, please, Lord Wetherby?' said
Claire, on whom these saccharine exchanges were beginning to have
a cloying effect.
For a moment Lord Wetherby seemed somewhat confused, but, pulling
himself together, he covered his embarrassment with a pomposity
that blended poorly with his horsy appearance.
'Married life, Miss Fenwick,' he said, 'as you will no doubt
discover some day, must always be a series of mutual compromises,
of cheerful give and take. The lamp of love - '
His remarks were cut short by a crash at the other end of the
room. There was a sharp cry and the splintering of glass. The
place was full of a sudden, sharp confusion. They jumped up with
one accord. Lady Wetherby spilled her iced coffee; Lord Wetherby
dropped the lamp of love. Claire, who was nearest the pillar that
separated them from the part of the restaurant where the accident
had happened, was the first to see what had taken place.
A large man, dancing with a large girl, appeared to have charged
into a small waiter, upsetting him and his tray and the contents
of his tray. The various actors in the drama were now engaged in
sorting themselves out from the ruins. The man had his back toward
her, and it seemed to Claire that there was something familiar
about that back. Then he turned, and she recognized Lord Dawlish.
She stood transfixed. For a moment surprise was her only emotion.
How came Bill to be in America? Then other feelings blended with
her surprise. It is a fact that Lord Dawlish was looking
singularly uncomfortable.
Claire's eyes travelled from Bill to his partner and took in with
one swift feminine glance her large, exuberant blondeness. There
is no denying that, seen with a somewhat biased eye, the Good
Sport resembled rather closely a poster advertising a revue.
Claire returned to her seat. Lord and Lady Wetherby continued to
talk, but she allowed them to conduct the conversation without her
assistance.
'You're very quiet, Claire,' said Polly.
'I'm thinking.'
'A very good thing, too, so they tell me. I've never tried it
myself. Algie, darling, he was a bad boy to leave his nice home,
wasn't he? He didn't deserve to have his hand held.'
8
It had been a great night for Nutty Boyd. If the vision of his
sister Elizabeth, at home at the farm speculating sadly on the
whereabouts of her wandering boy, ever came before his mental eye
he certainly did not allow it to interfere with his appreciation
of the festivities. At Frolics in the Air, whither they moved
after draining Reigelheimer's of what joys it had to offer, and at
Peale's, where they went after wearying of Frolics in the Air, he
was in the highest spirits. It was only occasionally that the