Those who dine at the Richelieu sit over their cups. It is the custom. A
dinner at the quiet Duke Street restaurant is never a prelude to an
entertainment. It is the entertainment itself. People go there to dine
and talk leisurely. The kitchen and the cellar are probably the best in
London; the service and the atmosphere are certainly the best in the
world. There is an unseen orchestra, which plays so softly that you are
just aware of melody while you converse. There is no light but that shed
by table-lamps, so that it is more easy to identify the dish your
neighbour is tasting than your neighbour herself. You may be sitting by
Royalty; often enough you are. And if you ring up to take a table you
will be told that they are all booked—unless the clerk at the bureau
knows and respects your name. It is the custom.
Upon the ninth evening of December the elements seemed to have conspired
to enhance the Richelieu’s charm. Without, a gale was raging. Squall
after tearing squall flung down the dripping streets, fuming at every
obstacle, blustering at every corner, lashing the pitiless rain into a
very fury. The latter fell steadily and, with the wind behind it, drove
and beat passionately upon a miserable world, harrying, chilling and
stinging till such as might gave in and pelted for shelter, while such
as might not fought their way through the _mêlée_ with tightened lips.
Behind the curtained double-windows of the restaurant only the wilder
squalls obtained an audience, but those who sat there had proved the
night while they came, and the muffled stutter of the rain and the dull
growl of the wind about the casements vividly remembered the malice of
the streets.
Little wonder that the comfort of the room entered into the soul.
Lady Elizabeth Crecy set down her glass.
“Degeneration,” she announced. “That’s my trouble. I’m degenerate. I
worship luxury—silks, furs, perfume, shaded lights, deep carpets,
shining bathrooms, electric broughams and the rest.”
Her host pulled his moustache.
“I’ve seen you stick it,” he said. “I remember a day with the Cottesmore
when——”
“Perhaps. But all hunts lead up to a bath. If there was no hot water, I
should never get up on a horse.”
“Neither would stacks of people: but that doesn’t mean they’re
degenerate. Cleanliness may be next to Insanity, but it’s well meant.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“You can get clean with cold water.”
“It ’as been done,” said Pembury. “I’ve done it myself. But you can bet
your life it wasn’t my fault. I bathed in a fountain once—one January
day.” My lady shuddered. “Exactly. I admit I got clean, but it put me
off water for weeks.”
“Perhaps,” said his guest. “The point is, Dick, that you did it, while
I——”
“So would you,” said Dick stoutly. “I mean, other things being equal, of
course. One or two screens, for instance. You’re no more degenerate than
I am. The best’s good enough for you, of course. And quite right too.
We’re all of us out for the very best we can get.”
“I’ve got it to-night, any way.”
Thoughtfully the man regarded her beautiful fingers. He may be forgiven.
The fierce light of the little table-lamp could find no fault in them.
“Thank you, Dot,” he said quietly. Then he gave a light laugh. “But
that’s because you oughtn’t to be here.”
“But I ought,” said my lady. “It’s most appropriate. _Après vous_—the
deluge. To-morrow I take the plunge. I’m dining with you for
support—ginger. You’re my Best Man. If the truth were known, my future
husband is probably seeking inspiration at the hands of his best girl.”
“I’ll bet you’ve told no one.”
“I didn’t inform the Press, if that’s what you mean. All’s fish that
comes to Scandal’s net. Though why I mayn’t dine with you to-night and
announce my engagement to Hilton to-morrow morning I fail to see.”
“Degeneration,” said Pembury. “That’s the answer. Not ours—the world’s.
The blinkin’ age is degenerate. People would immediately assume there
was something wrong. ‘Engaged to one cove,’ they’ld wheeze, ‘an’ dinin’
out with another? Hul-_lo_!’ And they’ld wink an’ wag their heads an’
lick their thick lips . . . Oh, it makes me tired, Dot. It’s made me
tired for years. We’re not hot stuff, you and I. Then why should we be
branded? But we should. If we were charged with stealing, people’ld
shriek with laughter. They know we’re honest and they’ld know there’d
been a mistake. But just hint that we’ve been forgathering, and our
respective reputations’ld be blown inside out.”
My lady regarded the end of her cigarette.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “they would. It’s bitterly unfair, but they
would. But was there an age when they wouldn’t?”
“There must have been,” said her host. “Besides, things usedn’t to be so
bad. Everyone’s got a muck-rake nowadays. They almost sell ’em at the
Stores.”
“You haven’t,” said Lady Elizabeth.
“Neither have you,” said the man.
“Perhaps that’s why we get on.”
Pembury raised his eyebrows.
“It’s a tie, certainly,” he said. “Still, you and I hit it off before we
thought about muck-rakes. I imagine it’s bigger than that—a question of
taste. We’ve always had the same tastes. We’ve always loathed golf——”
“Don’t mention the game,” wailed Elizabeth. “Hilton’s determined to
teach me—says the great thing is to learn while you’re young.”
“—an’ loved hunting. We both hate claret and love beer.”
“A vulgar taste,” said my lady. “Hilton would have a fit. When I can’t
bear it any more, you must send me a bottle of Bass by parcel post.”
“We’re both of us fools about dogs, if we must see a show we like music
with a small ‘m,’ we’re both left-handed, we don’t know what it is to be
seasick——”
“I trust Hilton doesn’t. Otherwise, the yacht . . .”
Pembury frowned.
“You called me your Best Man just now. Did you mean that, Dot?”
“I did. Why?”
“It gives me a right to say what I’m going to say.” Lady Elizabeth
stared. “You’re not to gird at Hilton before me again. I know you’ld
never do it before anyone else: and we’re such very old friends—we’ve
always discussed everyone—that it’s easy enough to forget. But you——”
“Forget what?”
“That we’re on a new footing now. Hilton’s up on the daīs, and I’ve
stepped down.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed.
“Upon my soul,” she said, “I think that beats it. First, you set out to
teach me manners: then, you calmly announce that Hilton has usurped your
place.”
“Hang it, Dot, I never——”
“When you said I oughtn’t to have come, you were perfectly right. I
oughtn’t. I ought never to have come here with you. I thought you could
stand corn, and I find you can’t. I thought you understood, and I find I
was wrong. I tell you now you were never ‘up on the daïs’—never within
miles of it. Because I gave you my friendship, I suppose you thought I
cared.”
“I did,” said Pembury quietly. “It was very presumptuous, but I did. And
if I’d had enough to keep you, I’ld ’ve made certain. . . . And now that
you know, old lady, have a heart. Forgive me for being clumsy and call
it ‘Nerves.’ I’m like a spoilt child this evening. You’ve spoiled me by
being so nice. And now I know that it’s over, I’m kicking against the
pricks.”
There was a long silence.