"I fear that I shall be prevented from going to Hanover Square
to-morrow, as I shall be making calls with mother. We've been
neglecting to call of late, and have such a host to make."
"Then I shan't see you at all to-morrow?" I said in deep
disappointment.
"No, I fear not," she answered. "As a matter of fact, my movements for
the next few days are rather uncertain."
"But you'll write and tell me when you are free?" I urged earnestly.
"If you wish," she responded, smiling sweetly. Apparently she was in no
wise averse to my companionship, a fact which had become to me more
apparent now that she had induced her mother to invite me to their
table.
I endeavoured to extract from her some appointment, but she only
whispered--
"Remember that our meetings are clandestine. Don't let them overhear
us. Let's change the subject." And then she began to discuss several
of the latest novels.
She had apparently a wide knowledge of French fiction, for she explained
how a friend of hers, an old schoolfellow, who had married a French
baron and lived in Paris, sent her regularly all the notable novels. Of
English fiction, too, she was evidently a constant reader, for she told
me much about recent novels that I was unaware of, and criticised style
in a manner which betrayed a deep knowledge of her subject.
"One would almost think you were a lady novelist, or a book-reviewer," I
remarked, in response to a sweeping condemnation which she made
regarding the style of a much-belauded writer.
"Well, personally, I like books with some grit in them," she declared.
"I can't stand either the so-called problem novel, or a story
interlarded with dialect. If any one wants nasty problems, let them
spend a few shillings in the works of certain French writers, who turn
out books on the most unwholesome themes they can imagine, and fondly
believe themselves realists. We don't want these _queue-de-siecle_
works in England. Let us stick to the old-fashioned story of love,
adventure, or romance. English writers are now beginning to see the
mistake they once made in trying to follow the French style, and are
turning to the real legitimate novel of action--the one that interests
and grips from the first page to the last."
She spoke sensibly, and I expressed my entire accord with her opinion.
But this discussion was only in order to hide our exchange of
confidences uttered in an undertone while Hickman and the two ladies
were chatting at the further end of the room.
All the time I was longing to get a sight of the interior of the
adjoining apartment, the room whence had burst forth that woman's
agonised cry in the stillness of the night. I racked my brain to find
some means of entering there, but could devise none. A guest can hardly
wander over his hostess's house on the first occasion he receives an
invitation. Besides, to betray any interest in the house might, I
reflected, arouse some suspicion. To be successful in these inquiries
would necessitate the most extreme caution.
The fragrant odour of _peau d'Espagne_ exhaled by her chiffons seemed to
hold me powerless.
The gilt clock with its swinging girl had already struck eleven on its
silver bell, and been re-echoed by another clock in the hall playing the
Westminster chimes, when suddenly Mrs Anson, with a book in her hand,
looked across to her daughter, saying--
"Mabel, dear, I've left my glasses on the table in the library. Will
you kindly fetch them for me?"
In an instant I saw my chance, and, jumping to my feet, offered to
obtain them. At first she objected, but finding me determined, said--
"The library is the next room, there. You'll find them on the
writing-table. Mother always leaves them there. It's really too bad to
thus make a servant of you. I'll ring for Arnold."
"No, no," I protested, and at once went eagerly in search of them.