Out of the shilling he purchased next day a ticket on the metropolitan
railway and rang at the bell of Cynthia’s door; in Half-Moon-street.
When the door yielded under his vehement onslaught he strode like a
fighting-cock past the door porter, for he was burning with love. But
the door porter, an elderly man, called him back and said:
“Kindly wipe your feet, sir, on that mat outside: this is an expensive
carpet and belongs to the first floor people.”
“But isn’t Miss Wellington on the first floor?”
“No, sir, she lives in the attic.”
He crawled upstairs, up innumerable flights of stairs, and the higher he
climbed the lower his spirits descended. Strange, he reflected, that a
girl whose trouble Ottercove had said was too much money should live in
an attic. But there it was! Millionaires had fancies and did for
pleasure what other folks were paid to do. Wasn’t the late Emperor of
All the Russia’s favourite recreation chopping wood in the palace yard?
A maid responded to his summons and he stepped into a neatly-appointed
apartment. He had scarcely had time to smile at Cynthia, when the maid
announced:
“Mr. Mortimer Pilling.”
And the delicate room held the strong, wiry man with the crisp, curly
black hair. “’Pon my word! Dickin, of all people! Had no idea you knew
him, Cynthia. You never let on.”
“How could I? I only know him since last night.”
“Oh, really?” Pilling looked enquiringly at Frank.
“It seems as if I had known you all my life and even earlier in a
pre-terrestrial existence. But, in point of fact, we only met last
night. Where was it? Ah, yes, at Ottercove’s, wasn’t it?” said Frank.
“A man,” said Pilling, “I always wished to meet. A most delightful man,
by all accounts, and one who could be useful to me in a thousand ways
and particularly in a little enterprise I have in mind.”
“You must meet him, Mortimer,” said Cynthia, while the bell rang at the
front door.
There was a sigh of exhaustion in the hall, and when Cynthia came back
she was followed by a new guest.
“Mr. Mortimer Pilling. Lord Ottercove.”
Lord Ottercove gave Pilling one searching, long look with his
penetrating grey eye and shook hands. Mortimer Pilling looked as though
his day had arrived. But Lord Ottercove turned to Frank: “Well, how did
you enjoy yourself last night?”
“By all accounts,” said Pilling, following Lord Ottercove round the
room, “he enjoyed himself very much. Ha! ha! ha!”
“It was dull,” said Ottercove to Frank and not looking at Pilling.
“You need Mrs. Kerr,” said Pilling, looking from Frank to Ottercove, “to
brighten up a party. You remember, Dickin, our tea-party together last
month?”
“Yes,” said Frank, “I remember.”
Lord Ottercove sat down heavily in a big chair and never once looked up
at Pilling. Never did Frank Dickin see him so impressive. The Grand Duke
of Fleet Street had surreptitiously climbed up eight flights of steps
(he who said he suffered from his heart) and now sat still in a great
armchair and wouldn’t look at Pilling. Never, Frank reflected, is a
great man more a great man than in a low-ceilinged attic, at the side of
a Pilling. For, but for the Pillings, no one might know that Lord
Ottercove was a great man.
“How are de Jones and Eva?” Frank enquired.
“Very well,” said Ottercove.
“I am very fond of Eva,” put in Pilling.
“Nearly done with Paris and going on to Rome. I am off myself to join
them at Nice at the end of the month. Will you come with me?”
“Well,” said Frank, looking anxiously at Cynthia, who returned a look
which he interpreted as a sign not to reveal to Ottercove the secret of
their forthcoming wedding.
“Have you seen the papers?” Lord Ottercove asked, confining his enquiry
to Frank and Cynthia, while Pilling quickly said: “About the General
Election?”
“How old Joe’s already shouting,” Ottercove continued, oblivious of
Pilling’s question, “about the bursting granaries that would be ours if
we back the Liberals to put an end to international bickerings and
jealousies and push on with the Lord de Jones scheme. And his Hackney
speech! Lord Ottercove assumed the pose of a public speaker. ‘And we
shall ask, by what right, whether human or divine, some men’s tummies
digest more bread and butter in one hour of their sleep than you, O
Toiling Masses, can earn by the sweat of your brow in a week?’
“‘’Ear, ‘ear! Good old Joe!’
“But he silences them with a gesture; his hand again shoots out: ‘_And
we shall ask_’--Grand fellow!”
“A great orator,” exclaimed Pilling.
Lord Ottercove’s eyes dimmed. “Joe,” he said, “is a giant.”
“He is,” said Pilling, looking from Lord Ottercove to Frank.
Lord Ottercove did not look at him. “And the news that de Jones has been
received with acclamation by the Paris mob. Good sign that. Cheaper
bread for the common people! And old Joe knows how to give it the right
ring. Grand fellow! We will beat the Conservatives at the poll this
time, you’ll see. It’ll do them good to be beaten.”
“Why?”
“Conservatism is a subversive habit to conserve what was won by the
Liberals of the past. If Conservatism is to live to-morrow, let Liberals
have their way to-day.” He rose and, turning to Frank, said:
“Come and see me to-morrow at five.”
Frank looked significantly at Cynthia. “Can’t at five:--six.”
Pilling left soon after Lord Ottercove.
Frank and Cynthia left a considerable time after Pilling.