The Fainéant Club was going to the devil, which was unnecessary,
considering the state of the weather. There was nobody about--including
Wentworth Boyle. The magazines were uncut--cutting meant energy. The
tape machine ticked out nothing but cricket scores, in which I am not
interested. A waiter was sleeping in a chair in a remote corner, the
only suggestion of coolness about the place. There was absolutely
nothing to do. It was too hot to swear.
I went to the window and looked out. Piccadilly was a glaring Sahara.
The rows of horses across the way were limp as chewed string, and lived
for nothing but the next water-cart that should pass and drench their
burning hocks. The trees bore spiritlessly their burden of dust; and the
only energetic thing in sight was an impervious newsboy crying the
fatalities of the heat-wave--a Song of Degrees.
I was in a fermenting state of discontent. The season had only just
begun, and there were at least six weeks of this to look forward to--six
weeks of hot, breathless theatres, and daily martyrdoms on the Row. The
season was confounded rot. I had half a mind to throw the whole thing
up. I went to the writing-table, wrote a complaint to the committee on
the iced drinks, murmured the prayer for rain, and returned to the
window.
Why did the women look so cool when the men were in such a state of
collapse? Millicent Dixon had just driven past, looking as fresh as a
buttercup. I saw Millie Dixon twice a week on an average, and she always
did look fresh. Yet she must be eight-and-twenty.
I determined to walk, if I could do so without risking a sunstroke. The
first parasol of my acquaintance that passed should be my refuge,
provided the bearer were not too stout. I am stoutish myself.
A white gown was tripping--tripping!--towards the club window, which,
from a certain trick of carriage, should belong to Mrs. Loring
Chatterton. I calculated my time carefully, and stepped from the club
awning to the shelter of the sunshade. Mrs. Loring is slight.
“My dear Mr. Butterfield, how do you do?”
“Thank you, my dear lady,” I replied; “with a little basting I shall do
to a turn.”
“Oh! isn’t it?” she said. “I never knew such heat in May. You must feel
it terribly, Mr. Butterfield.”
Now, I am not so stout as all that. Thirteen four, for a bachelor
approaching forty, and of personable height, is no extravagant riot of
flesh.
“I admit to a certain warmth,” I replied; “but when your own, permit me
to say, somewhat meagre presence has ripened to a more generous
noontide, perhaps _you_ will resent any ostentatious sympathy on the
subject.”
Mrs. Loring laughed. She always refused to take my dignity seriously. To
her I am not Rollo Butterfield, LL.D. (ceased to practise), but Mr.
Butterfield, who may be allowed to see the children in bed, should he
wish it, and who is sacrificed on the altar of intimacy to take in to
dinner nervous schoolgirls, and act as escort and general convenience in
shopping expeditions.
“Well,” said Mrs. Loring, “I don’t think you ought to mind at your time
of life. Let me see, how much older than Loring are you?”
“Mrs. Loring Chatterton, perhaps you prefer to walk to Wilton Place
alone?”
“It _must_ be rather hard on you,” said this incorrigible lady,
laughing.
I looked at the sunshade and at the glare that shone mercilessly on my
patent leathers. Decision of action was never my strong point, and the
firmest principles will soften at ninety-two in the shade. I
capitulated. Compromise beneath a parasol was better than dignity in the
sun.
We walked along. By the exercise of much ingenuity in mapping out a
track that should consist of the maximum of shade, by the strategic use
of large vans and the skirting of a person with a huge umbrella, whose
shadow was as that of a great rock in a thirsty land, we arrived at
Wilton Place, and, in response to Mrs. Loring’s invitation to come and
have tea, I followed her in.
Mrs. Loring’s drawing-room was cool as a cloister. I foundered on to a
sofa and closed my eyes, while my hostess, as a last impertinence,
vapourised me in passing with a tiny scent fountain, and left me in a
luxury of dim light.
Such a retreat, at my time of life, was very soothing. My meridian was
pretty near the full, and I had a right to a drowsy siesta before facing
again the afternoon glow whose level rays would decline to the long
evening. I lazily watched a fly that was spinning a soft drone in the
twilighted room, and blinked through my half-closed eyes at the few
white splashes of sunlight on the floor, vivid in the subdued tone.
Bowls of flowers cooled the air with perfume, and the Genius of Rest
brooded over the place. The afternoon with its business would come, no
doubt; but for the present this was my oasis.
Mrs. Loring reappeared in a tea-gown whose gossamer frothed daintily
about her neck. She looked the pink of freshness--and yet she was within
three years of thirty. I took a kind of pleasure in the thought. Loring
was a lucky man.
A tray was brought in, and this attentive lady fluttered round the
little silver urn, and ministered to my _paresse_ with tea and lemon. I
grew humorously melancholy, and lapsed into gentle vistas of
reminiscence. I believe I sighed.
Mrs. Loring mentally referred the sigh to corpulence, for she came over
with tea, and said, “There, poor man. That will cool you.”
I half rose from my reclining posture, and shook my head as I took the
cup.
“No, madam,” I said, “tea-leaves cannot allay the dust of memory. I sigh
for what once was, for what might have been now. I sigh for Ten Years
Back. Do you ever sigh for Ten Years Back?”
From the puzzled way in which she looked at me, she evidently did not.
“Ten years back,” I continued, “you and I were yet young.”
She tried to look wrinkled.
“Ten years back you were interested in painting, and visited the
National Gallery. Millie Dixon was also interested in painting and also
visited the National Gallery. Loring Chatterton didn’t give a hang for
painting, yet he dragged me round to the National Gallery. I paid the
sixpences.”
“Anyway you were always glad enough to see Millie Dixon; you didn’t do
it out of pure self-sacrifice.”
“The National Gallery,” I continued, not heeding the interruption, “is
one of the great storehouses of the world’s art. It is the pride of a
great nation. _I_ went there for purposes of study; but how did _you_
profit by it? You used it for rubbing shoulders and squeezing hands.”
“I know how you profited by it,” said Mrs. Loring, laughing. “You used
to study the water-colours down-stairs, and you got locked in one day.
Millie Dixon, by the way, got locked in too.”
“Millie Dixon always _had_ foresight,” I said musingly.
“But you never painted, and Millie Dixon did.”
“In spite of your insinuation, Mrs. Loring, I never ascertained that.
Her complexion----”
“Then you ought to have done. Here are you two still hanging on in the
same position as ten years ago. _I_ gave Millicent a month if she knew
her business. Loring and I didn’t take so long. I am disappointed in
you. I’m sure it’s not Millie’s fault.”
That was hardly fair. Millie had never thrown herself at me.
“If you’d made love to Millicent,” she went on, “you’d not have been a
lonely fat old bachelor, living in a horrid flat, and wasting your time
at clubs and race meetings.”
“Mrs. Loring Chatterton,” I replied, “if I’d made love to Millicent I
should have been just as--mature of outline, and should still have been
a bachelor. It is my gift. I was born a bachelor. I should have said,
'Miss Dixon, if you love me, let me remain a bachelor.’ She would have
said, 'As a bachelor you first loved me; be always my own bachelor.’ It
is, alas! my single talent. I was made for singleness.”
“Rubbish! You know you like Millicent.”
“Dear madam, I like all ladies--as a garden of flowers, yet I cannot
bring myself to pluck one.”
“Then why do you sigh for ten years back?”
That is the worst of women--they have a way of being suddenly logical
when no one expects it of them. Mrs. Loring is a charming woman, but I
must be careful. One or two lapses into sentiment like this, and she
will have me married to Miss Dixon before I know where I am. But my
weakness was over. I pulled myself together.
A burning white spot of sunshine had been slowly crossing the floor in
my direction, had mounted the sofa, and was threatening to disturb my
repose. It brought back the hot streets and the stifling club, and was
invading my sanctuary with vivid glare. I was moving along out of its
way when a bell rang.
“Oh! and the tea’s cold!” said Mrs. Loring, with the first thought of a
hostess. “I’ll have to get some more in.”
Miss Millicent Dixon entered unannounced.
“My Dear Molly,” cried Miss Dixon, “if you love me, give me some tea.
How do you do, Mr. Butterfield? Do you know, Moll, I have been rushing
about for two mortal hours trying to find a wedding present for Madge
Beaumont, and I haven’t got one! Do help me--Mr. Butterfield----”
“Oh, don’t ask him,” Mrs. Loring struck in; “Mr. Butterfield’s been
getting sentimental. Between ourselves, Millie, he came dangerously near
to a lucid interval. He’s been sighing over a misspent life, and wishing
he were years younger.”
“Is it announced yet, Mr. Butterfield?” inquired Millicent
mischievously. “Who is she?”
“Promise to tell Millie before any one else, Mr. Butterfield,” said Mrs.
Loring.
The machinating married woman! No bachelor is safe with her. I said
nothing.
“Then it is true!” said Miss Dixon, “and I shall need two wedding
presents. Mr. Butterfield, the unassailable bachelor! I shall give you
_Paradise Lost_, Mr. Butterfield.”
“Ladies,” I answered, “you are unfair. You catch me in a weak moment,
suffering from sunstroke, and accuse me of good resolutions. Does my
previous bad character go for nothing? May I not have a half-hour’s
weakness without hearing of it again? It is my first offence. Oh, how
difficult is the true Bachelor Ideal!”
“Then you are not engaged, Mr. Butterfield?” said Millicent.
“Not to my knowledge, Miss Dixon. I admit to a certain wavering. If it
comes again I will take you into my confidence; in the meantime we will
discuss Miss Beaumont’s wedding present.”
We went into committee on the subject. I was still the Compleat
Bachelor.
But I had presentiments.