FATIMAH WAS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF HASCHISH.
Mr. Rodney's condition of mind during, and for some time after, his
drive from Mrs. Verulam's door in the black-and-green cab would
scarcely afford fit subject for minute description. When a thoroughly
estimable man ceases to take an interest in his "little place in the
country," forgets whether he has put on the same pair of lavender
gloves on two successive evenings or not, is careless about the set of
his white tie, and totally unaware that his hair is unevenly parted
when he is setting forth to the "crush" of a Countess, analysis
should hold its merciless hand, psychology should veil its piercing
eye. Suffice it, then, to say that Mr. Rodney was indeed sore smitten
and afflicted by the terrible revelation of Mrs. Verulam's maniacal
determination. To a man of his nature, life is society and society
is life; the mode is to him what the burning bush was to Moses; the
fashion of the day is the god in the car under whose wheels he loves
to lie. Men, women, sorrows, joys, all people, all things, are but
food for the sustenance of the deity whose rouged and powdered face
looks down, like Jezebel's, from the lattices of a meretricious heaven,
intent only on gaining an empty compliment, or a sly _œillade_ from
the worshipping world below. The thought that a woman who was not only
in the fashion, but literally the fashion, a woman with whom he was
in love, should suddenly fall under an influence with a ridiculous
name, hobnailed boots, and no club, rendered him almost imbecile with
impotent agitation; and it is on record that he was seen in the late
afternoon of the day of Mrs. Verulam's appalling deliverance furiously
pacing the Thames Embankment, and that at night he—how was never
known—in some manner made his way to Clapham Common, upon which
preposterous portion of the earth he wandered alone for nearly an hour
and a half, uttering exclamations of despair, and making crude and
tragic gestures.
Such deeds as these sufficiently proclaim the extraordinary condition
to which he was reduced. But there was more to come. Three days later
he departed to Mitching Dean, in the very top of the season, and he
might perhaps have been there at this moment, forgotten and clean gone
out of recollection, had not a violent telegram from Mr. Lite, the Bun
Emperor, summoned him back to town. The telegram ran as follows:
"Where the devil is Lady Sophia Tree's bun praise?—Perry Lite."
On receipt of this despairing cry, Mr. Rodney started from the
hammock in which he was sulking upon the Mitching Dean lawn like one
distraught. He remembered his obligations, and to him obligations were
sacred things. In his despair he had thrust Lady Sophia's delicate
tribute—his tribute, indeed!—to the Lite buns into the pocket of
one of his frock-coats, and there it doubtless remained in darkness,
instead of blazing forth, heavily "leaded," in the most popular
paper of the day. Now, this frock-coat was up in town. Accordingly,
Mr. Rodney ordered round the brougham, drove to the Mitching Dean
station—often alluded to by him in conversation as "my bijou station
at Mitching Dean"—and took the train to town to do his duty by Mr.
Lite. Once there, he remained. Upon his hall table in Grosvenor Place
he found a sacred assemblage of invitations to the very best houses. He
looked into his vellum-bound and silver-clasped "engagement" book, and
discovered that Mr. Pettingham summoned him to the Unattached Club to
see views of the Holy Land and to hear a lecture that very night. And
he heard all around him the murmur of the monster that he loved licking
its lips over its repast of pleasure. His procedure, therefore, was as
follows: He extracted the bun praise from the frock-coat and forwarded
it at once to Ribton Marches, with many an explanation and apology. He
then accepted "with pleasure" all the invitations which he had found
upon his table, and, finally, he made a careful toilet, dined quietly,
and, stepping into the green-and-black cab, ordered his coachman to
drive him to the Unattached Club.
As he rolled thither on indiarubber tyres he wondered whether he
should meet Mrs. Verulam. She used to go there. And, indeed, everybody
invariably went to Mr. Pettingham's parties, which were intensely
smart, as well as slightly educational in tone. But the deadly
influence that emanated from the Farm, Bungay Marshes, Lisborough,
might have deterred the pretty widow from adhering to her usual habit
upon this occasion. Mr. Rodney's long limbs trembled in the cab until
the horse began to gallop, under the impression that only the most
rapid motion could save it from an earthquake imminent at its back. If
Mrs. Verulam should have already yielded to the baleful and hypnotic
powers of the man Bush, should have already died to the only life worth
living!
The galloping horse was thrown violently upon its haunches. The
brilliant light above the door of the Unattached Club shone upon the
twisted face of Mr. Rodney. He was compelled to recollect himself, and
to get out. Still trembling with unwonted agitation, he made his way
downstairs to the magnificent suite of apartments in the area retained
by the enthusiastic Mr. Pettingham for his popular gatherings. A door
was thrown open, and he found himself in the pitch dark, and in an
atmosphere of heat that was almost suffocating. By this atmosphere
Mr. Rodney knew that the room was packed with women of title. He
could not see them, but the very great difficulty he experienced in
drawing breath proved to him that they were there in this black well
on the threshold of which he was standing. He realised them, and he
also realised that he had arrived rather late, more especially when
he perceived at some distance off a pale circle of light, rather
resembling a theatrical moon that had sat up late too many nights
running, and heard a small and quacking voice say:
"I very much regret that, owing to a slight accident, resulting in
serious injury to my Jerusalem, I am unable to show my views of the
Holy Land this evening. I shall therefore substitute for them my slides
of Morocco, and shall tell you a few of my recent experiences while
travelling with my very good friends Prince Carl of Schmelzig-Heinstein
and the Duke of Drigg through the far-famed land of the Moors."
The quacking voice paused to allow a murmur of "Charming! charming!" to
rise like incense out of the darkness, and then added:
"The Palestine soup, which you will presently find upon the supper
menu, will, I fear, not strike you as appropriate in the changed
circumstances. I regret that there has been no time to substitute for
it some potage Tetuan. You will now see the Prince, the Duke and myself
as we appeared when in the act of _landing at Tangier_."
The quacking voice hurled out these last three words with impressive
emphasis. Under cover of them Mr. Rodney, who, from old experience,
knew the plan of the room, glided down the two steps from the door,
and crawled with infinite precaution among the invisible duchesses
in search of a seat. For Mr. Pettingham's lectures were long, and
his slides were often slow to appear when summoned with a duck-like
"Hey, presto!" Now, as Mr. Rodney crawled, like Jean Valjean in the
sewers of Paris, he heard upon every side the slow breathing of almost
suffocated society. Here he recognised the familiar snort of the Lady
Jane Clinch, famous for her luncheons, there the piping sigh of the old
Countess of Sage, who was born on the day of the Battle of Waterloo,
and talked of the Crimean War as a recent event. He heard the Baroness
Clayfield-Moor shuffling her feet, according to her immemorial custom,
and recognised, with a happy thrill of instant knowledge, the stifled
cough of Mrs. Brainton Gumm, the Banana Queen, who had taken society
by storm two seasons ago, and still kept her footing by paying it
with persistent entertainments. A little further forward the familiar
sneeze of the Duchess of Southborough broke upon his listening ear, and
his bosom heaved with the exultant satisfaction of the hare with many
friends. There was, indeed, no atmosphere in which Mr. Rodney felt more
thoroughly like a fish in water than the atmosphere of Mr. Pettingham's
delightful gatherings. The utter darkness in which they invariably
took place lent them a peculiar charm, obliging the acute society man
to rely on an unusual sense for the discovery of those known to him.
The eye was rendered useless; the guns of vision were, for the moment,
spiked. Success and comfort depended upon the senses of hearing and of
touch. Never did Mr. Rodney feel more completely the rapture of the
sleuth-hound than when he followed the trail of one attractive to him
through the dense human jungle of the Unattached Club.
To-night, however, he was a little bit off-colour, owing to the
agony of mind which he had been enduring for the last few days. In
consequence, perhaps, of this fact, his feet forgot for an instant
their ancient cunning, and when he heard the Duchess of Southborough
sneeze a second time in his immediate vicinity he started, and trod
heavily upon a neighbouring Marchioness. Of course he knew her.
Directly she screamed he discovered an old and valued friend, and
poured forth a complete apology into the blackness, an apology which
was whisperingly accepted. But this painful misadventure slightly
flurried him, and caused him to commit a solecism the memory of which
haunted him to the last days of his life. For, after making his
peace with the Marchioness, he inadvertently sat down in the Duchess
of Southborough's lap, just as Mr. Ingerstall was vehemently hissing
into her ears, "The only thing that makes Tangier possible is the fact
that there is a French Consulate there. That cursed thing, British
influence——" It was at this point that the Duchess suddenly began
to struggle feebly, and to catch her breath beneath the unexpected
imposition of Mr. Rodney. He got up immediately. Any gentleman would
have done so, much more our friend from Mitching Dean. But the Duchess,
partly from surprise, since she had not heard anyone approaching her in
the darkness, partly from the physical collapse very naturally brought
about in an elderly lady who is suddenly called upon to support a
weight of some twelve stone or thereabouts, continued to gurgle in a
very alarming manner. Mr. Pettingham, who, rod in hand, was in the very
act of pointing to a small figure relieved in colours upon the sheet,
and saying, "There you will perceive my excellent friend the Prince
stepping into the first boat to go ashore," was brought up short in his
informing discourse.
"I hope nothing is the matter? No one is taken ill?" he quacked
anxiously.
The perspiration broke out in a cold cloud upon Mr. Rodney's face. He
bent down to the darkness from which he had just risen, and murmured
with a pungent agony, and a disregard of grammar that did him credit:
"Duchess, it's only me! I do assure you it's only me, Mr. Rodney! Pray,
pray forgive me! Oh, pray do recover! Be all right! Oh, Duchess, for
our old friendship's sake be all right, or they'll turn on the lights!"
This tragic appeal was not without its effect upon her Grace. She
good-naturedly came to, and Mr. Rodney, fortunately discovering
an unoccupied seat on her off-side, sat down and hastily went on
apologising, while Mr. Pettingham proceeded with his discourse.
"I cannot—I can never tell you how grieved and shocked I am," Mr.
Rodney whispered.
"What is your weight?" whispered back the Duchess.
"My—I beg your pardon!"
"How much do you weigh? You are monstrously heavy for your size."
"I am very sorry. I am quite ashamed—only just twelve stone, I do
assure you—I am really——"
"My dear man, never mind. If Mr. Pettingham will keep the room so dark
we must all expect to be sat on. Where have you been all this long
time? I haven't seen you anywhere for the last three days."
"I have been at Mitching Dean."
"What, at this time of year?"
"I have not been at all well."
"Gout? Carlsbad would do you more good than Mitching Dean."
"It was not the gout; it was more painful than that," Mr. Rodney
hissed, with genuine emotion. "Is Mrs. Verulam here to-night?"
"Yes, in pale green—charming little creature!"
Mr. Rodney thrilled.
"Mr. Van Adam is with her," continued the Duchess. "They are about
eighteen rows behind us, and Pearl is sitting with them."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. Mr. Van Adam has quite cheered her up, poor child; or else it
is Dr. Spencer Hill's new spray treatment that she is trying. But I
really am inclined to think it is Mr. Van Adam. He is a great success
in London."
"Really!"
"Oh, a great success!" By the sound of her whisper Mr. Rodney knew
that the Duchess had turned her head to the near side. "Isn't he, Mr.
Ingerstall?"
"I really don't know. I only know that he liked the mosaics—actually
admired them!" snapped that gentleman, in the distance; "and yet he has
lived in Paris. He has seen the——"
"How did Mrs. Verulam get to know him?" continued her Grace to the
off-side.
The palpitations of jealousy seized Mr. Rodney.
"I have no idea," he whispered.
"Was she ever in Florida?"
"Oh dear, no!"
"Of course, people are talking——"
"Might I venture to request silence?" quacked the irritated voice of
Mr. Pettingham at this juncture. "It is almost impossible for me to
bring my friend the Duke of Drigg's adventure in the Soko vividly
before you if I do not have the kind assistance of your complete
attention. Well, as I was saying, it was very evident to me that
Fatimah was decidedly under the influence of haschish." He struck a
bell. "Here you see Fatimah under the influence of haschish."
"These adventures of Drigg's are very uninteresting," continued the
Duchess, resuming her conversation in a louder whisper. "People are
talking, you know, Mr. Rodney."
"Talking—what about?"
"Oh, Mrs. Verulam and Mr. Van Adam. But I take a more charitable view.
After all, she's twenty-eight."
"Oh, surely not more than twenty-seven!"
"Englishwomen always look more than their age," Mr. Ingerstall
whispered violently. "It's an extraordinary thing! Now, a Parisian——"
"Twenty-eight, Mr. Rodney; and getting on towards twenty-nine. And he
looks a mere boy. You have heard all about him? Did Bernard Roche ever
tell you his age?"
"No, never!" said Mr. Rodney, suddenly registering a vow to write on
the morrow to New York and find out a great deal about Huskinson,
against whom he was rapidly conceiving a most deadly hatred.
"He seems very young to have got a divorce," her Grace whispered
reflectively. "However, in America I suppose they begin earlier than we
do over here. People develop more rapidly, I believe."
"Yes, Duchess; but about Mrs. Verulam and Mr. Van Adam. What are people
saying?"
Mr. Rodney's note was hoarse.
"Oh, the usual thing. And certainly it is a little strange, his coming
all the way from Florida to stay with her—alone in the house, too.
A little injudicious, certainly. Old Martha Sage is terribly shocked
about it. She declares it is the most extraordinary affair she has
known since the Crimean War!"
Mr. Rodney turned pale in the darkness. On what a precipice was Mrs.
Verulam walking. And James Bush, too! But Lady Sage and the Duchess
knew nothing yet of him. The darkness became to Mr. Rodney like a
spinning ball, in whose interior he violently revolved through space.
He was recalled to himself by hearing the Duchess say:
"Are you going on to the panthers?"
"The panthers?"
"Of Sartorius, at Mrs. Vigors' in Brook Street?"
"Oh yes, I believe I am, if there is time. Pettingham is a little
lengthy to-night."
"Terribly!"
She listened for a moment.
"Dear! Fatimah is still evidently under the influence of haschish. This
is endless!"
She agitated her enormous fan in the darkness. All around might now
be heard a rustling as of wings. The Dowagers, half suffocated, were
doing likewise. Mr. Pettingham sipped at a glass of water, and calmly
continued:
"When the Duke said this to Fatimah, the Prince and I were convulsed. I
got down off my donkey——"
"This is wonderfully interesting," Chloe murmured to Mrs. Verulam
eighteen rows back.
Mrs. Verulam, who was lost in a reverie, through which James Bush moved
with all the dignity of her idea of Agag, started and replied:
"D'you think so? I think it appalling! Even the Holy Land must have
been better than this. If he takes us into the interior, I shall faint."
"I shall now proceed to show you some views of the interior," continued
Mr. Pettingham, with a quacking complacency. "First try to imagine
yourselves in one of the filthy alleys of the Jewish quarter of
Tetuan." He struck the bell again. "Here you see one of the filthy
alleys faithfully reproduced."
"If only somebody would open a window," murmured Mrs. Verulam
distractedly. "Oh, but I forgot; we are in the basement of the club,
and there are none."
"Is it really true that the Princess of Galilee is here?"
"Yes, poor thing, in the front row. Oh, Chlo—oh, Mr. Van Adam, if you
only knew how I long to be quietly away from all this, sitting in some
sweet garden, with the quiet marshes stretching away all round me on
every side, and——"
"Oh, not marshes; they are horrible! You should see the swamps in
Florida!"
"An English marsh is quite, quite different. Mr. Bush has lived in
one all his life at Bungay." She sank her voice on the last romantic
word, and breathed a gentle sigh. "He will tell us of his life—of the
true, best life—when he comes to Ribton Marches," she added softly.
"For he has accepted my invitation in his own dear, characteristic
manner. I meant to have told you. I got his letter—or, rather, his
postcard—to-night, just before we were starting."
"What did it say?"
"'Coming.—J. Bush.'"
"Isn't that a little short—for an answer to you, I mean?"
"Yes, short and to the point. How much better than filling sheets and
sheets of letter-paper with empty phrases and meaningless compliments."
"Yes?" said Chloe rather doubtfully, as she settled her shirt-front,
and slightly pulled up her trousers to prevent them getting into
"knees." And then her attention was claimed by the Lady Pearl, who
murmured in her ear:
"How terrible must be the sufferings of these poor Moorish infidels! It
is impossible to escape from agony, mental and physical, in any part of
the world."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Verulam suffered under a very delightful infliction
of the darkness. At Mr. Pettingham's parties people very often heard
themselves talked about, as the want of light rendered it impossible
to see who was who and who was where. Therefore the injudicious were
constantly prone to allow their opinions to be known by those whom
they most nearly concerned. While the Lady Pearl was pouring her very
creditable heart-woes, or secret consciousness of gouty tendency, into
the ears of the supposed Mr. Van Adam, a woman's voice broke upon Mrs.
Verulam's unoccupied ears.
"Did you see them come in?" it whispered, apparently carrying on an
already begun conversation.
"Yes," replied another murmuring female voice.
"Did you like her gown?"
"Pretty well. I am certain it must have come from Violette's."
"Oh, I thought she got all her gowns in Paris!"
"My dear, she _says_ so."
"She does her hair well."
"Yes. But I am not sure whether it suits her broadened out so very
much over the temples. I thought it looked a little exaggerated, but I
daresay the men like that."
"Men always admire her."
"Oh, men admire anybody! They have nothing else to do. Mrs. Verulam
does as well as you or I, or anyone else."
"I hear Mr. Hyacinth Rodney is simply furious about this Mr. Van Adam.
They say he has left town and gone away to Mitching Dean."
"Where everything comes from. I don't wonder. Mrs. Verulam seems to
have taken leave of her senses. To have a man only just divorced—a
mere boy, certainly, but so handsome—over from America to spend the
season with her! It's the most extraordinary proceeding! I don't think
people will stand it. She's taken Ribton Marches because he has never
seen an Ascot. Lady Sage is trotting about everywhere expressing her
private opinion of the matter."
"What is it?"
"Oh, too straightforward to quote here. But I fancy if Mrs. Verulam
isn't very careful she will get to know what the cold shoulder is at
last. One can't fly in the face of—oh, what's that?"
A crash in Mr. Pettingham's direction startled the suffocating titles.
Providence had been kind, and, taking pity on their increasing
breathlessness, had caused the hand of the slide-manager to slip
at a critical moment. The interior of Morocco strewed the floor in
fragments, and the adventures of "my excellent friends, Prince Carl of
Schmelzig-Heinstein and the Duke of Drigg," were brought to an abrupt
and merciful termination. A blaze of electric light revealed a panorama
of hot faces, heaving shoulders, gleaming tiaras, and waving fans.
Mr. Pettingham stepped down, with many apologies for the unfortunate
accident, into the room, offered his arm to the Princess of Galilee,
and escorted her towards the supper-room, quacking loudly as he went.
Conversation burst forth as if a dam had been pierced. Dowagers rose
up, groups formed and dispersed. The two words "Palestine soup" floated
on the surface of every mind, and a general move was made in the
direction taken by the host and the Princess.
In the midst of the confusion Mrs. Verulam saw the tall and thin form
of Mr. Rodney carefully—remembering the Marchioness—threading his way
towards her through the throng. His eyes were fixed reproachfully upon
her. And he had assumed the self-conscious air of a man recovering from
a long and dangerous illness. The Duchess of Southborough followed,
escorted by the shouting Mr. Ingerstall. Mrs. Verulam found herself
overtaken by a shudder of boredom. She looked away, and saw the two
women who had been discussing her so incautiously get up and exchange
glances of dull and strangled horror on perceiving that she had been
sitting so near to them. And while she felt that she hated them, she
almost loved their scandal, for it seemed to set the cage-door ajar.
And she fancied that she could see the squirrel—no longer Tommy,
but Daisy—cease from its everlasting scramble upon the revolving
gilded bars, and turn bright eyes upon the door pushed ever so little
outwards, and move to it, and put his nose—just outside. That was
lovely! And since it was most certainly the young gentleman in the
tweed suit, now in orthodox evening-dress, who had accomplished this
good beginning of a miracle, Mrs. Verulam turned to him with a quick
and expressive movement of gratitude and graciousness. More than one
well-bred starer noticed it, and the Verulam and Van Adam scandal
marched another step onward, while Mr. Rodney began to look as if the
poor, self-conscious man was rather relapsing into than recovering from
his illness. However, he approached, trying not to glare at Chloe, who
looked marvellously young and handsome in her man's costume, took Mrs.
Verulam's hand, and said softly:
"I have just returned from Mitching Dean."
"Indeed! I didn't know you had been away until to-night."
"I felt that I must have rest—change—time to think and to recover."
"From what, Mr. Rodney?"
"From the blow; the blow dealt me by a cherished hand."
Mrs. Verulam tried not to look too obviously bored.
"I hope you are better?"
"That I have to find out; that I must know. It is a question to me
whether I shall ever be better."
He glanced again at the radiant Huskinson, now in animated conversation
with Lady Pearl and the Duchess, thought again of James Bush, and was
nearly feeling himself the most unhappy of men. He could not hide from
himself the horrible fact that Huskinson looked well in evening-dress,
and the man who looks well in evening-dress looks well in anything. Mr.
Rodney surveyed the slim form of the orange-grower, his curly black
hair, his bright and merry dark eyes, noted his animated and youthful
manner, perceived that he went to a first-rate tailor—Francis did
know all about it!—and felt a sort of prostration stealing over him.
He mentally went back upon his resolve to hold out the right hand of
fellowship to Huskinson by a present of melons from Mitching Dean. One
does not heap melons upon an adversary. Human charity has its limits.
Mr. Rodney, casting a pale and jaundiced glance upon the bright and
successful youth so lightly bearing his recent trouble, resolved, and
resolved with real firmness, that the beds of Mitching Dean should not
be denuded of their mellow and tender-hued fruit. No, no!
Meanwhile, Chloe was in high feather. She had lost all fear of
discovery, and gave herself ardently to the bosom of that wonderful
thing society, which received her with that strange and bizarre
passion of receptive protection and coaxing ecstasy reserved for
the millionaire. Only the millionaire fully knows the greedy love
of the monster, its tenacious anxiety to please, its skipping and
self-conscious lures, its readiness for self-humiliation, its grand and
ample abandonments of dignity. Only the millionaire sees in perfection
those fawning attitudes of the monster, supple and engaging, which no
new-fledged puppy dog can ever surpass, or even emulate, when creeping
with flattened ears about the feet of a worshipped master. Chloe knew
at last the smiles of Duchesses as she could never have known them,
had she not slipped into an evening coat, pumps, silk socks, and "the
newest thing in waistcoats." The lethargy of a forgetful footman had
opened for her the very gates of heaven. She had the animal spirits to
enter in with an intrepid gladness. At present she was cheering up the
melancholies of the Lady Pearl, who blossomed into a sort of sepulchral
hilarity beneath her warming rays. The Duchess of Southborough smiled
upon the sunny transformation. But soon her Grace, business-like even
in beatitude, remembered that there were even more important matters
afoot than the gradual dispersion of a daughter's gout, and, advancing
upon Mrs. Verulam, she exclaimed in her friendly bass:
"And what about Ascot, Mrs. Verulam? Is it all settled? The Duke is
enchanted at the idea of a week in the Bun Emperor's palace; for Ribton
Marches is forbidden ground to everybody. Mr. Lite never has visitors,
except to lunch to sign an advertisement. He thinks the sanctity of the
home should not be intruded upon. Have you really got the house?"
"Mr. Rodney says 'really,'" Mrs. Verulam said, looking at him.
Mr. Rodney bowed towards his boots.
"Dear me! How delightful! A large party?"
"Very small."
Mrs. Verulam mentioned its items. Her Grace, although her magnificent
jaw fell slightly at the name of Mr. Ingerstall, was pleased to say
that it was cosy.
"And Mr. Van Adam will keep us all going," she added, flinging in
Chloe's direction a weighty smile of approbation.
Mr. Rodney squirmed.
"But who is this Mr. Bush, dear Mrs. Verulam?" she continued. "Does one
know his name?"
"He is a country friend; he lives in retirement in Bungay Marshes."
"Sounds a rather damp existence. I hope he will not give us all cold.
Pearl, my darling, you may go in to supper now with Mr. Van Adam.
Remember to drink nothing but lime-juice cordial. Mr. Van Adam, I trust
you to see that my child does not touch champagne. With her tendency,
it would be fatal."
The Lady Pearl flushed with vexation. To have one's mental malady
drenched with lime-juice—one's soul treated like the body of a
North Pole explorer—is to swallow a bitter pill. She looked at her
large mother with a dawning defiance. Then she took Chloe's arm, and
whispered loudly in her ear:
"I shall drink champagne to-night. I will not be treated like a"—she
had nearly said "child," but, recollecting herself, substituted "gout
patient." The words, tremulous and tragic, seemed to come from the very
depths of a nature profound as a well. Chloe received them with the
smile that had enthralled Huskinson, and whispered back:
"I'll get you two glasses."
It was innocently said, but that it was strictly judicious cannot be
admitted. Such tender treatment was surely calculated to stir too
wildly a character like the Lady Pearl's. And, moreover, it led her
into subterfuges, for, half an hour later, when the Duchess, Mrs.
Verulam, Chloe, Mr. Rodney, Mr. Ingerstall, and others, were gathered
in the hall of the Unattached Club, waiting for the carriages which
were to take them all "on" to the panthers, she replied to her Grace's
question, "You kept to lime-juice, Pearl darling?"—"Oh, mamma, I drank
two glasses," and her accompanying glance at Chloe was almost in the
nature of a tiny wink.