_Wherein it is suspected that, on Occasion, the Trumpet of Fame is not
Wholly Immaculate of the Hiccup_
Pangbutt’s handsome studio had been cleared for a reception; and the
deliberate old butler, throwing open the great folding-doors, walked
stiffly into the room and glanced an orderly eye round the brilliantly
lighted details in a last complacent survey before the near arrival of
the guests.
He started at a loud peal of the door-bell, and pulled out his watch:
“I hope they are arriving early enough!” said he. “It comes of arsking
these here artists to the house.... They’re always hungry and they’re
always noisy, and they’re always thirsty. Even if I suffered from these
here afflictions I’d have the manners not to show it.” He shrugged his
shoulders. “I call it letting ourselves down. They don’t even know how
to put on their clothes like Christians.”
He straddled stiffly out of the room, grumbling and mumbling.
“Leastwise not like Christians of the Established Church,” he
growled....
He returned after awhile through the great hollow of the handsome
doorway, ushering in four guests.
When they had entered, he said stiffly:
“Mr. Pangbutt, I fear, will not be down for several minutes, gentlemen;
he has only just come in to dress.”
He drew out his watch from his pocket, and glanced at it aggressively.
Robbins laughed gently, and winked to the others:
“We _are_ a trifle early, Dukes, I am afraid,” said he, going up to the
dignified old man--“but if Mr. Rippley _will_ insist on sitting between
the reins on the top of the hansom, the cabby drives hard to escape the
inquisitive attention of the police--a body of men, Dukes, that live
feverishly anxious to catch something and are bored with the greyness
of the popular virtue.”
He tapped the old man on the shirt-front.
The butler bowed stiffly, and withdrew.
Fluffy Reubens strode airily into the middle of the room and surveyed
it:
“I say,” said he--“portrait painting seems to pay, eh?”
Lovegood coughed:
“H’m--n’yes,” he grunted; and added tragically: “When you can paint
portraits.”
“Get out!” said Fluffy, and flung himself into an easy-chair.
Rippley strolled round the room and tested the electric lights; his
hands itching to be at any devilment:
“Oho!” said he--“so the curtain is to go up to-night and discover the
real Anthony Bickersteth--the man of mystery--the writer of _the_
book!... I suppose it ain’t Pangbutt himself!”
Aubrey at the mantelpiece, gazing at himself in the mirror, said simply:
“Bosh!”
“Rather a dramatic situation when you come to think of it, eh?” said
Fluffy Reubens, lolling his full length in the easy-chair.
Rippley, his hands in his trousers pockets, considered the situation
with reflective eye fixed on the carpet:
“And a rippin’ dramatic emotion, eh! To feel one’s self being wrangled
about from one end of the country to the other----”
Aubrey turned languidly from the mirror:
“Ah!” said he, “and then to listen to it all, robed in the delightful
invisible cloak of pseudonymity!”
Rippley laughed drily:
“No, no, Aubrey, old man--that wouldn’t have suited you at all. You
wouldn’t have lasted at it for a fortnight.”
Lovegood smiled:
“We need not get into the quarrelsome stage about it yet,” he said in
his big deep voice: “We shall be tearing him to pieces in magazine
articles to-morrow and flinging him to the dogs of the lower journalism
to snarl at before the year is out.... The failures are always
suspicious of popularity.”
Aubrey turned to the mirror again, and said “Bosh!”
Fluffy Reubens winked at the others:
“I don’t see that this chap Anthony Bickersteth’s work is a snap better
than Caroline Baddlesmere’s; and he’s prigged a lot of her ideas----”
Aubrey turned round to the room, took up a picturesque literary
attitude, elbow on mantel, his cheek leaning on his long fingers,
legs crossed, essaying to realize the portraits of the thirties, and,
rousing from his adoration of himself, he said petulantly:
“My dear fluffsome Robbins, I have repeatedly told you that Caroline
Baddlesmere lacks breadth of view and a man’s humour--to say nothing of
that certain something of subtle atmosphere that is called genius....
You really ought not to give me the trouble of reiterating these simple
truths.... You compel me to feel as blatantly insistent as a bookmaker
on a race-course----”
He was interrupted by the entrance of the old butler, ushering in
Bartholomew Doome and Andrew Blotte--Andrew in very much crushed and
wrinkled evening dress, and looking unutterably shabby, Doome well
groomed.
Bartholomew Doome laughed:
“Yes,” said he, “yes, yes--I heard what Aubrey was saying; but Aubrey
is a poet, not a critic.”
Lovegood laughed a funny deep nasal laugh.
But Rippley had turned to the strange figure of Andrew Blotte. He smote
him on the shoulder with strong genial hand:
“Cheer up, Andrew,” he cried.
Blotte smiled wearily; he roused from his brooding; he was very pale:
“Where’s the bar?” he asked gloomily.
Rippley laughed:
“Vanity Fair has not opened her drinking-saloons yet,” he said. “We’re
all before our welcome.”
Blotte sighed, and said absently:
“I have come to tell Pangbutt I cannot sup with him to-night.” He
smiled a pale sad smile; and, rousing, added moodily: “I came into my
Irish estates last night--took over the keys of my castle in Spain....
Last night I slept under the blue quilt, and filled my belly with the
north wind. And,” he added hoarsely, “to-night I sup with the gods.”
Rippley shook the moody man by the shoulders, and gripping them in his
big kind hands, he said:
“Shut up, Blotte; you’ve got to sup with _us_ to-night--gods are a
large order, even Aubrey is not yet translated.”
Blotte roused; laughed; strode into the middle of the great room. He
turned gloomily:
“No--I go to a mighty banquet, old friend. I go to sup with the gods
to-night.”
“Now, now,” said Fluffy Reubens, sprawling in two chairs. “Chuck it,
Blotte--you make me feel as cold as a dead undertaker.... Lor!” he
yawned, “this is precious slow.” He yawned again: “Paul Pangbutt’s a
confounded long time, ain’t he? Scenting his beard, I suspect!”
Andrew Blotte roused from his mood, and he began to pace up and down
the room as before: “No more Italian waiters for me--with cursèd oily
locks,” he cried--“no more grease-spots on dingy grey tablecloths that
hide their offences under smiling napkins!... To-night I shall be
waited upon by the gods.... Never again the boiled potato; never again
the homely bun, damn them!... This is the night of life--a night for
music and gaiety and minstrelsy.... Hunger shall cease, and pain----”
Rippley went up to him and took him by the shoulder, kindly:
“Stop it, Blotte. Aren’t you well, old man?”
Blotte laughed:
“Well?... Psha! I am like a boy. The new genius arrives to-night. And I
go off--to sup with the gods.... The world has forgotten Andrew Blotte.”
Rippley turned, a twinkle in his eye, to the others:
“I say, boys,” said he--“as it’s to be a unique night, and Blotte
about to be translated, and may be in the papers in the morning----”
Blotte laughed grimly, where he paced:
“Oh, yes,” he growled--“I shall be in the papers to-morrow. Have no
fear of it.”
Rippley slapped him on the shoulder:
“Then,” said he, “we ought to give Pangbutt’s house an air. There
is a lack of the grand manner here. One man-servant is ridiculously
inadequate. At least three of us ought to assist to wait on the guests.
Doome and Fluffy and I and--and you, Blotte--would make a ripping lot
of waiters, and it wouldn’t be half so slow as talking art and rot
to people who don’t know.... Genius shall serve the mob. This night
must never be forgotten. By Macready, yes--Pangbutt used to play at
play-acting! But where are his properties?”
Blotte was striding the room; he laughed:
“Ay, ay--the gala-night of life should be gay and joyous,” cried
he--“all the candles lit, as for a bridal.” He came to a halt, scowled
at the dark hollow of the great doorway, and strode thither.
The old butler was lurking suspiciously outside.
Blotte grabbed him by his coat lapel, and drew him into the light:
“Hireling fellow,” said he, “bring more lights. This place is like a
damned omnibus.”
The old butler held out an expostulant palm in dignified remonstrance:
“Gentlemen, gentlemen--the guests will be arriving in a few minutes----”
Rippley went up to him, and gripping his fingers in the old servant’s
waistcoat, pulled him into the room.
“Don’t talk like an unfrocked bishop, Dukes--it’s most irreligious,”
said he. “Look here”--he slapped the old man’s chest jocosely--“your
master and the amateur aristocracy used to have private theatricals
here. Where are his wigs and make-up things? Where does he keep them?
Quick!”
The old butler promptly began to retire backwards upon a handsome
cabinet:
“Gentlemen, gentlemen; surely I have no need to remind you that Mr.
Pangbutt’s wigs are his private property,” said the shocked, anxious
old man. “I haven’t Mr. Pangbutt’s permission----”
Rippley followed him up, grimly smiling:
“Get out, you old panjandrum!” said he. “You’ve shown the hiding-place,
you naughty old deceiver. Go away!”
He pushed the expostulating old man from the cabinet, and, throwing
open the drawers, proceeded to ransack them.
“Hullo!” he cried--“splendid!”
He struck a match:
“Spirit lamp--everything. Ginger! Here’s a glorious short beard affair
that goes down the middle of the chin and all along the throat.”
He put it on.
“By Clarkson, makes me look like a ducal butler--I’ll be butler.”
He flung off his coat, and his deft fingers began to fix the disguise
on his chin.
The butler touched him upon his shirt-sleeve in dignified despair:
“Gentlemen,” said he--“this is not decent. I repeat--it is not honest.”
“Go hon!” said Rippley, punching the old man in the ribs with his
elbow, and working away at the fixing of his throat-beard. “Look here,
Fluffy,” he called hurriedly--“you and Doome _must_ run this pompous
old dolt downstairs and shoot him into the cellar--and lock him in.
Quick! or the people will be arriving.... I hear carriage-wheels.”
Robbins and Doome seized the shocked old man and hurried his protesting
stiff being out of the room and down the stairs.
Rippley followed them to the top of the stairs, making up his disguise
as he went:
“Look here, boys,” he called down in a hoarse whisper--“if the old
fool will swear not to move away from the hall door until we release
him you needn’t put him in the cellar.... What?... Eh?... He says he
surrenders? That’s all right then. Now back with you--quick! or the
guests will be here--or Pangbutt himself.”
There was a loud ring at the door-bell.
Rippley skipped back to the cabinet: and from the cabinet he ran to
Andrew Blotte:
“Blotte, old boy,” said he, pulling a red wig over the gloomy man’s
head and combing the lank red hair down the sides of his pale
face--“you must look after the cloak-room and change the tickets and
mix the hats.... Ha-ha!” He laughed mock-tragically. “This night must
never be forgotten!”
“It never will,” said Blotte; and laughing grimly he got striding again
in the red wig, as Fluffy Reubens and Doome burst into the room.
“Here, Fluffy,” said Rippley, “quick, man! put on this yellow wig, and
comb it well over your eyes. There isn’t a moment to be lost; Doome,
here’s a black moustache and a greyish wig--this is the way to stick it
on--see? Splendid! Makes you look like a broken-down Italian tenor.”
He searched about in the cabinet and found a stubbly black wig which he
pulled over his own hair, and was at once a son of France:
“Look here, boys, I’m head-waiter, see! And when I bow, you bow: and
when I rub my hands, you rub your hands; and don’t forget the foreign
accent--try to talk English as you used to talk French.... Doome, you
stand at the landing below, and see that old Dukes don’t stir a step
from the door--and bawl up the names from him. And you, Fluffy, play
the general ass. I’ll stick to the door here.... Are we all right
now?... No, Blotte’s not enough disguised. Here, Doome, fasten this
fierce moustache on his lip, whilst I shut up.... O lor! here they
come!”
Rippley had scarcely hurried into his coat when there entered and
halted in the great doorway a hesitating figure in the white satin
dress of a courtier of Charles the First, lace frills at his weak
knees, white stockings, white shoes, and holding a plumed hat in his
hand.
His eyeglass dropped out of his eye, and he stood there stuttering and
aghast.
There was a titter.
“Sharles ze Foorst--risen from ze dead!” announced Rippley.
“I say”--the affected drawl discovered Ffolliott. “Rippley told me it
was a--fancy-dress--affair,” he said plaintively. “And to come early.”
There was a wild shout of laughter.
Ffolliott looked round nervously at the strange faces, and recognising
Aubrey at last, by the mirror, he said peevishly:
“I am exceedingly displeased with Rippley--he--he chose my dress.”
Rippley wiped the tears from his eyes:
“Well--don’t you see we are nearly all in disguise? ... except Aubrey,
who thinks that because he looks like an ass no one will know him.” He
turned to the others: “I say, boys,” he added, chuckling, “things are
beginning to move at last. This _is_ going to be a unique night.”
“Hush!”
They had all turned to Blotte, and a strange silence fell upon the room.
Andrew Blotte stood listening, as to some strange sounds. He roused:
“Ay, I sup with the gods to-night.... And I can hear the guests
arriving--all the clever fellows that have made the world a
delight--and with them come the dear dead companions that worked with
us, and sang with us, and drank with us--in Paris.... I know them--they
talk such damned bad French.”
Rippley went and touched him on the shoulder:
“Blotte, old boy; you’re very queer to-night,” he said. “You make me
feel as blue as a newly-clipped hearse-horse.”
Blotte roused, and moved towards the door; halted; turned to them all:
“I say I sup with the gods to-night--and mix the hats--and set the
table in a roar.... I must hasten away.... I hear them call.... God
bless you, dear boys! we shall meet in sunshine----”
Rippley stepped to the door:
“Quick!” said he in a hushed whisper, “make a line, quick there,
you Fluffy, Doome, Blotte, to my left here at the door. Here comes
Pangbutt.... He blows his nose like the old nobility.... Come along.
Blotte--don’t look like a broken-down anarchist in an advanced stage
of pip. You must affect the smiling, friendly, neapolitan manner,
expectant of a fee.”
As Blotte’s pale face took on a deathly smile, Rippley bowed, and there
stepped into the open doorway the well-groomed figure of their host.
Pangbutt halted, perplexed.
He gazed in vague consternation at the Vandyke travesty in white silks
before him--turned to the solemn countenances of the four waiters:
“May I ask what, in the name of Beelzebub, is happening in this house?”
he asked.
Rippley clasped his hands together unctuously, bowed, smiled a large
Italian smile. He advanced a step, and said with a strong foreign
accent, picking his words with slow deliberation:
“Sir Pangboot--it has arrive to ze domestic bootler that he is
indispose sudden-ment. I am he’s friend that he have ask to take he’s
place, vis my asseestants.... Your house shall have ze much honour in
my hands--we have the habit to attend ze best families----”
There was a loud ringing of the door-bell.
Pangbutt put his hand over his eyes:
“I must be going mad,” he said.
Rippley bowed:
“Sir Pangboot--me and me friends, we speak not very well ze
Engleesh--but we much understand it well--and----”
“Yes, yes.” Pangbutt dismissed them impatiently. “Get to your
business.... Curse it! I wonder what on earth ails Dukes.”
As the four comic-looking foreign waiters left the room, he hesitated,
bewildered. And Rippley, as they passed out, nearly burst a bloodvessel
as the tragic Blotte’s moustache fell off. But Pangbutt had suddenly
remembered that he was host; and advancing into the room he turned to
the others:
“I beg your pardon, I am late I fear.”
He shook hands with Lovegood and Aubrey; and, turning to Ffolliott, a
faint smile flickered over his worried face:
“Ffolliott!... Sorry to be late, but there have been domestic
difficulties--my butler has gone sick.”
The guests were arriving fast.
“Mistair Maupassant Fosse!” bawled Rippley at the door.
The little man glared at the servant, fussed into the room, and tripped
across to his host.
“A nickname they have for me,” he said--“a nickname....”
Rippley watched Blotte solemnly tramp down the stairs, his wig on one
side; heard him announce to a lady, just arrived, that he was going to
sup with the gods; and he was gone.
Groups of guests came swarming up the stairs and passed into the studio.
Rippley, glancing into the studio, saw the white satin dress of
Ffolliott move uneasily amongst the arriving guests; and he heard his
thin, affected drawl as he explained to his host:
“D’you know--I feel such an ass----”
Pangbutt patted him upon the shoulder:
“Never mind,” said he absently--“it can’t be helped. Make the best of
it.”
“Oh, but I assure you--they told me it was to be a fancy-dress affair.”
Rippley bawled at the door:
“Sir Gilders Cinnamon!”
Sir Gilders Persimmon shuffled into the room; and Pangbutt went to meet
the old baronet.
“Lady Persimmon coming to-night, Sir Gilders?” he shouted into his ear;
the old man shook his head.
“Sorry,” bawled Pangbutt into his ear; “Sir Gilders, allow me to
introduce Mr. Fosse, who, I need not tell you, is the well-known
critic. He has written a eulogy of Anthony Bickersteth that is to
appear in a few days--you must win his favour to your poems.”
The old baronet cackled with senile laughter.
Fosse threw up his head. He glowed. He felt that all eyes were upon him.
“Yes,” he said--“my eulogy appears to-morrow.” He forgot to bawl.
Sir Gilders put his hand to his ear: the entrance and stir of the
arriving guests and their announcement and greetings perplexed his weak
hearing:
“Eh?” said he--“borrow? Why borrow?”
“No, Sir Gilders,” cried Fosse, getting very hot--“I did not say
borrow--I said my eulogy appears to-morrow.”
“Why?” asked the old man.
There was a titter....
Ffolliott, thinking he saw someone he knew, went up to Lovegood and
slapped the big man on the back:
“Hullo, old chap!” cried he.
Blank consternation came upon him as Lovegood slowly turned and
solemnly faced him. The weak-knee’d, foolish Ffolliott faltered
nervously:
“Oh, er--er--I thought you were someone else,” he drawled.
Lovegood nodded gloomily.
“I am,” he said sepulchrally.
Ffolliott tittered confusedly:
“Ye-yes--indeed,” he said, twisting his fingers and fidgeting. “D’you
know, I feel such an awful ass----”
Lovegood coughed:
“But that is no excuse for your being in the other ass’s skin!” he
growled.
“Oh, but don’t you see--that’s just it! They told me it was a
fancy-dress affair....”
“Eh?” bawled Sir Gilders Persimmon.
All eyes turned from Ffolliott to the perspiring Fosse. The little man
shifted uneasily under the fire of many amused critical eyes.
“I was saying,” shrilled the minor critic in his thin jerky voice,
“that the man who does not play whist is laying up a sad old age for
himself.”
The old baronet shook his head:
“The man who what?”
Fosse licked his lips sullenly:
“The man who doesn’t play whist,” shrieked Fosse, reddening miserably.
“What about him?” asked Sir Gilders peremptorily.
“Lays up a sad old age for himself,” screamed the miserable little man.
The old gentleman knit his brows:
“A reformed rake?” he asked testily....
But attention was diverted from the fussy little minor critic’s despair
by the murmur of admiration which greeted the entrance into the room
of a beautiful woman to whom Quogge Myre was paying aggressively
marked court as the announcement of her name called the regard of
the assembled guests to her arrival. Myre was ever for stealing the
lime-light. He was a born filcher of honour. But the beauty’s calm
dismissal of him, as she swept towards her host, gave Myre a sudden
hysteric desire to talk loudly and hide his chagrin; and he turned at
the sound of Fosse’s voice, raised in argument, as hyena goes to offal.
Fosse in his despair had turned from Sir Gilders, and launched into the
discussion round about him:
“In the arts,” he was saying, “woman does not, cannot, shine. She only
exists--on sufferance. A woman’s province----”
Myre had strolled towards the voice:
“I am flattered to find,” said he, “that Mr. Fosse has been reading me.
He is right. A woman’s province is to be beautiful; and if she write
at all she may write of the nursery--of the domesticities. A woman
has not the experiences of life--she writes only from intuition. She
cannot experience the emotions of a man--cannot describe all shades of
life--is too careful of her skirts to have been on the heights and in
the gutters----”
Lovegood coughed:
“Never,” said he, with big deliberate voice--“never shall I again
approach a municipal sewer without an ecstatic thrill.”
Quogge Myre took no notice of the shaft:
“A woman,” said he, “cannot be in the thrash and fume of life. She only
peeps out fearfully over the window-blind at the doings of the world.
She has not physical strength----”
Somebody coughed:
“Tra-la-lee!” said he--“opera--bouffe--bouffe--bouffe.”
Myre went suddenly dumb....
Sir Gilders Persimmon had shuffled over to Fosse, who was wetting his
lips, eager to leap into the debate, when Myre’s yawing should give
opportunity, and, button-holing the fussy little man, the deaf old
gentleman asked him:
“You said, sir, that the reformed rake did what?”
“No, Sir Gilders--I said that the man who does not play whist is laying
up a sad old age----”
The old gentleman poked him slyly in the lean ribs:
“Makes the best husband, eh! Indeed, yes--very likely--very likely. But
it’s dangerous doctrine--it’s----”
“No, Sir Gilders,” shrieked the perspiring little man--“I say the man
who does not play _whist_.” He coughed--his voice breaking. “Oh, damn
this old gentleman!” he added, moving irritably away from him....
Quogge Myre turned to Pangbutt:
“Now, Pangbutt, mind you, I don’t say that this Anthony Bickersteth is
a Balzac; but he has the true genius for literature. How can you define
these things? It is there, or it is not there!”
Fosse skipped up to the group:
“What _I_ say--what _I_ say----”
Quogge Myre stared at his little disciple with contempt; a sneer played
about his puffy lip--became too tense for silence:
“This man repeats what I say--what I _used_ to say--like flattery,” he
said.
Lovegood smiled grimly:
“Oh,” said he--“_he_ stays in Paris sometimes now. And there are the
French newspapers.”
Myre shrugged his shoulders:
“I have changed all my ideas on these subjects----”
But the ridiculous figure of Ffolliott strolled nervously up to the
group, and interrupting the critical vapourings of Quogge Myre, he said
with affected drawl:
“D’you know, I feel such an awful ass--and I don’t get used to it.”
Lovegood gazed at him solemnly:
“Young fellow,” said he--“you must not be egotistical--it’s bad for the
morals. Try and forget yourself in that disguise.”
“I can’t,” drawled Ffolliott miserably--“I am quite angry with
Rippley--he told me it was a fancy-dress affair--and----”
Fosse turned his back upon him impatiently:
“I repeat,” said he--“and I have a signed article in _The
Discriminator_ to prove it--a genius has arrived.”
“By Pegasus?” sneered Aubrey, raising ironic eyebrows.
Lovegood laughed:
“No--by omnibus,” said he. “Let us all be winged asses to-night. Fosse
has not secured a government monopoly.”...
From the great doorway:
“Mistair and Mrs. Nezzerbie Gomme!” announced Rippley; and as the pair
were greeted by all near them, Rippley stepped to the head of the great
stairs, and going up to a pompous man as that worthy set foot on the
topmost step, he said to him confidentially:
“I say, mister, would you mind running down the stairs and telling the
fellar with the red hair that I want him?”
Sir Tankerton Wollup swelled slowly:
“Pooh--pooh!” said he, drawing himself up; and he strutted to the door.
“Poof--poof!” said Rippley. “Giddy old thing!”
He glanced over the balustrade down to the next landing, and caught
Doome’s eye:
“Beelzebub!” he growled--“the whole town’s coming to this silly
theatrical affair.... I say, we ought to go and see that Andrew
Blotte’s mixing the hats thoroughly. Hullo! There’s Anthony Baddlesmere
just arrived. Wait, I’ll come down. I want to see him.”
He made his way down through an ascending stream of newly-arrived
guests, with some difficulty, just as Ffolliott, seeing Sir Tankerton
Wollup hesitate at the door, went up to the great man mincingly, and
said affectedly:
“Oh, I say, Sir Tankerton--d’you know, I feel such an awful ass--but
they told me it was a fancy-dress affair.”
Sir Tankerton, staring with bloodshot eyes of ruffled dignity at the
thing before him, sniffed.
“Go away!” he said testily.
Ffolliott went away.
As the pompous millionaire stood irresolute at the doorway, an
absent-minded snuffy little old gentleman shuffled up to his elbow,
followed at a couple of paces by a little faded old lady of withered
prehistoric design, and, touching him on the sleeve inquiringly, said:
“My good man--before you announce our names, will you tell me which is
the host? I have never seen my host before--in fact----”
“Poof--poof!” squealed Sir Tankerton Wollup, and strutted into the room.
“Dear me!” The little old gentleman turned to his little old lady; and
added in a confidential undertone:
“A most extraordinary person--a most extraordinary _house_!... But I
have always heard, my dear, that Bohemia was a strange country.... In
fact, Charlotte, it’s _rather_ thrilling, is it not?”
The little withered lady, all pleased excitement, said: “_Quite_
thrilling, James!”
Pangbutt seeing awkwardness at the door, and missing the loud
announcement of names, went a few paces closer to it to meet his
newly-arrived guests.
The little old gentleman entered the room vaguely, the dandruff of
the philosophic habit upon his coat-collar, and his wig full of
reasons--very markedly a professor. He had the air of cataloguing
ideas. The little old lady, a couple of paces behind him, followed him.
Pangbutt exchanged greetings with him.
Said the professor:
“Good-evening, sir; my sister’s husband’s brother-in-law, Sir Gilders
Persimmon, was good enough to say that you would allow me to meet
Mr. Anthony Bickersteth here.... I am writing a work to disprove
the insanity of genius.... It is a part of my theory that the human
personality cannot be hidden by artifice--that the strong temperament
shows itself in the vigorous growth of the hair--and so on.... I
am, sir, I may have forgotten to say, Professor Curtis.... I am an
inveterate novel-reader.... My wife keeps a diary.... Where are you,
Charlotte? Ah, yes. But, fervently as I admire Mr. Bickersteth’s prose,
I should like to suggest to him that in his next work he might make
more of that unworked mine, the folk-lore of the London coster--or
greengrocer.... I am most anxious that Mr. Bickersteth should be a
virile person whose moustache springs out strongly from under the
nostrils, with a tendency towards ruddiness in the colouring.... But
I fear that on this--what I may call his--er,” he tittered--“his
unveiling, I am too thrilled.”
He kept button-holing Pangbutt:
“Too thrilled to--er--I am thrilled, sir, thrilled, as indeed is
Charlotte--oh, ah, yes--Charlotte!” He searched about behind him for
the little old lady, who moved up to his side. “Oh, ah, yes--there
you are, Charlotte! Allow me to introduce Mr. Pangbutt, our host.
May I ask, sir, if Mr. Anthony Bickersteth has yet arrived? No?...
How fortunate! How very fortunate!... Charlotte, I am becoming quite
excited.”
Pangbutt led them to chairs.
Two richly-dressed ladies of an age that discovers as much as is
concealed by considerable dressing, hesitated at the door; and one,
taking a last amused glance over her shoulder at some incident that
passed upon the stairs below, tittered, and, turning, swept the room
with keen regard through her raised lorgnettes.
“How amusin’! how absolutely amusin’!” she crooned. “I like literary
and artistic people _so_ much.”
“Yes,” said the other, “they are _so_ different to one’s own class....
And actresses _dress_ so well!”
She flung back an elaborate head of jewels, and whispered something to
the lady of the lorgnettes.
The lady of the lorgnettes laughed:
“Really?” said she
“H’m, h’m!--yes. Pills.”
“Mr. Pangbutt’s father?”
“H’m, h’m! Yes. I assure you.”
“Dear me! And he has such a very distinguished manner!”
“And--d’you know?”
She whispered.
“Lady Persimmon? Indeed?”
The lady of the lorgnettes nodded mysteriously. The withered eyes
expressed shocked surprise. She gave a funny little laugh. The
lorgnettes were raised again, and she said, surveying the assembled
guests critically through the glasses:
“I absolutely _adore_ literary people--and artists--and actors--and
those sort of persons. It is so strange to think they have all slept
in attics. And really, it’s quite the _fashion_ to go on the stage
now.... Who’s the fright in the post-office red?... Oh! is it?... Lady
Margaret’s son has gone on the stage.... Gerty, do you know who that
dark creature is? with the Italian-looking person.... Oh, yes; and the
young fellow is getting on wonderfully. You see, they like to have
a gentleman on the stage--besides, he acts in the most gentlemanly
manner--quite unlike a professional actor. And then, of course, his
manager is rather exclusive--he called the company together the other
day, and told them that he did not expect them to recognise him in
the street. It’s so nice for the young fellow to be with such a
_gentleman_.”
“Yes. Our gardener’s son has joined a circus too. Such an amusin’ boy,
he was.”
“It brings it all so home to one, doesn’t it!”
“Doesn’t it, indeed! But I confess I have always been fascinated by the
stage. There’s somethin’ so very romantic about livin’ in green-rooms
and paintin’ your face, and--pretendin’ to be someone else.”
The other whispered in her ear.
The lorgnettes were flicked open again, and glittered upon Sir Gilders
Persimmon.
“Indeed! But he is so very old--and she--but there is such a difference
of social rank between a baronet’s wife and a mere painter--surely!
Still, he _is_ very old. Almost permissible sin, Gerty.”
They both tittered.
“My dear,” said the other, “you are really quite naughty.”
Sir Gilders pounced upon Fosse, whom he had followed round the room,
put up a hand to aid his dull hearing, and said:
“You were speaking of dotage----”
Fosse winced uneasily:
“No, sir,” he shrieked--“I was _not_ talking of dotage. I say that the
man who does not play whist lays up a sad old age for himself.” And,
turning on his heel impatiently, “The devil take the man!” said he, and
walked away.
Ffolliott espying the two newly-arrived ladies across the room, made
his way to them:
“Do you know, Miss Foljambe Pfinch,” he said--“I feel such an ass; they
told me it was a--fancy--dress--affair.”
The lorgnettes were turned upon him:
“It’s that ridiculous Mr. Ffolliott,” said she; and laughed
immoderately.
Ffolliott sighed, and turned away:
“Everybody seems to think I am an ass to-night,” he said wearily. “Oh,
there’s Fosse. I don’t like Fosse--but I’ll talk to _him_. No--he’s
talking to another man. I think I’ll go home. No, I won’t, I’ll sit
down.”
He sat down.
“Every fellow does something idiotic in his life,” he said.
He watched Fosse button-hole Gomme; and he saw Gomme’s lips smile
amusedly as he gazed at the floor, listening to him.
He bent all his attention to hear what passed between the two.
“Now, you know, Mr. Gomme,” said the fussy little man--“in
confidence, all these fellows take themselves too seriously to-day.
Look at Rippley! he’s utterly uncultured--he hasn’t an aitch in his
composition.”
Gomme nodded:
“But there isn’t an aitch in composition,” he said demurely.
“N-no.” Fosse stammered, becoming nervous. “But he can’t even pronounce
the names of the ancients whose gods he models!”
Gomme smiled:
“No--but he can model ’em.”
Fosse was puzzled for an answer:
“N’yes, that’s true perhaps. But there’s Aubrey--look at his legs, his
knees, his hair, his airs, his ties! He is for ever publishing volumes
of poems which no one reads.”
“Yes,” said Gomme. “But the publishers must have their luxuries.”
“Then there is Blotte. You know he has never produced a complete work
yet.”
“Maybe. But supposing one day he writes lines that, like some of his
handsome acts, shall never fade!”
“Oh, you think that!” said Fosse, licking his lips. “Well now, there’s
Lovegood. You know, he never says a really exquisite thing--he is
always ponderous--and rather obvious. He has not made his mark.”
Gomme sighed:
“Supposing he has done acts that will live in the memory of his
friends, Mr. Fosse! And--perhaps--when he has been dead a hundred
years----” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh--er--you really think so.” The foxy little eyes of Mr. Fosse were
searching the humorist’s features keenly.
Netherby Gomme took Fosse’s arm:
“And, Mr. Fosse, there’s this Netherby Gomme, the over-rated rogue,”
said he, with a whimsical twinkle in the eyes; “you know, he never
really says a humorous thing.”
Fosse sighed:
“But he can write them,” he said.
Gomme laughed, and gripping the little man’s thin shoulder, said he:
“Fosse, you are sometimes inspired.... You are inspired to-night.... I
have never known you so inspired.”
Fosse smirked:
“Well, anyway,” he said--and he grew taller as he said it--“I
think that to-morrow I shall have convinced many that, to create a
masterpiece, requires a man’s powers and a man’s wit and----”
“Mr. Anthony Bickersteth!”
The old butler stood at the door and sang out the name, making the
announcement in a loud clear voice.
A sudden hush fell upon the assembled guests. There was a craning
towards the great open doors.
A rustle of silk, and Caroline Baddlesmere stepped into their sight.
The silence was broken by a hoarse utterance from Fosse:
“My God!” said he; and was dumb.
There was a loud shout from the bohemians, who rushed to greet
Caroline; but the smile that had flickered about her lips went out.
Anthony Baddlesmere had entered the room.
“Caroline,” said he--“quick, for God’s sake, where is Paul?”
She signed towards him where he stood near at hand by the door.
“Why?” she asked.
“Kate Ormsby has been found--it’s too horrible,” he said.
He glanced round the room, and hurriedly made for his host:
“Paul,” he said hoarsely--“get rid of these people.”
Pangbutt raised surprised eyes:
“Get rid?” he stammered. “Why?”
Anthony Baddlesmere made an impatient gesture:
“Tell them they must go. Send them down to supper--no, he’s lying
on the supper table. Let the butler tell them there’s death in the
house----”
“Death?”
“Anything, Paul--get rid of them.”
Pangbutt’s eyes were a blank bewildered surprise:
“But--but----”
Anthony touched his arm:
“For God’s sake, Paul--give the order.”
“But why?”
Pangbutt wet his dogged lips sullenly.
Anthony took hold of his shoulder:
“Andrew Blotte has hanged himself in your cellars. I was just too late.”
“My God!”
Pangbutt’s voice was a shadow of a whisper. The floor swung up to
strike him--swung away from his feet so that he nearly fell. He reeled
a step, and sank into the gilt armchair that was the splendid seat for
his painting-throne.
The whisper spread; and the guests stole quietly from the place.