We reached Pesth at seven o'clock, and drove to the hotel that Mizzi had
recommended--the Andrassy. There we booked rooms, and thence, half an
hour later, strolled out into the cool and flower-scented streets. The
city was living, enchanted--the pavements thronged, and all the cafés
noisy with speech and laughter. At one of them, as we passed, a couple
were just leaving, and we eagerly took their places, squirming our way
amidst the shrubs and marble-topped tables. Terry had coffee and I a
bottle of Tokay, and the orchestra (one fiddle and a piano) played very
languorously Toselli's _Serenade_. It was the sort of night when you
never dream of asking what time it is--when life seems to rush at you
full-tilt and bring the tears to your eyes (or perhaps it is only the
wine that does that; one never knows.) And then suddenly, as I was
lighting an immense cigar, I saw a man approaching whose face I vaguely
recollected; he evidently knew me as well, for he smiled and held out
his hand with great cordiality.... Ah, I remembered--his name was
Bentley. I didn't know him at all well, and I daresay if he had seen me
in a London restaurant he wouldn't have bothered to introduce himself at
all. But Buda-Pesth was different, and my single meeting with him at one
of the Englehart parties in Eaton Square gave him ample excuse for
affability.
I introduced him to Terry, and he sat down and accepted a cigar. He was
pleasant enough company, though no doubt he was better pleased to see us
than we were to see him. He was in an English firm of electrical
engineers, he told us, and had been sent out to some God-damned spot in
the middle of Transylvania to see what was wrong with some equally
God-damned turbine. And the God-damned job had taken three weeks, and as
he didn't know a word of the God-damned language he had had what might
be termed a perfectly God-damned time. But he was on his way back now,
thank heaven, and would continue the journey by the Orient Express that
evening. "Awfully jolly meeting you in a place like this, eh? Damn it
all, it's decent to hear my own voice again, let alone yours. But you're
not the only English folks I have seen in this city. There were an
interesting couple at the hotel where I stayed overnight--the Andrassy."
"Our hotel," I interpolated, and he went on: "Oh, well, then, you're
almost bound to meet them. I didn't--I was only there for a few hours,
and the chap was with his wife--very _en famille_ sort of thing, don't
you know--and besides, I only knew him by sight. But I believe you once
told me he was a great pal of yours--Geoffrey Severn, the lawyer
johnny...."
I remember saying, very calmly: "Really? How extraordinary! And his wife
as well, you say?"