Lord Lullworth, while he was drinking his tea and admiring to the full
the exquisite electrical apparatus by which it was prepared, was giving
some attention to the other young men--Mr. Richmond might possibly still
be thought of by some people as a young man--who occupied chairs or
stools around Miss Severn’s seat. Guy Overton he knew pretty well, and
he had never pretended that he thought highly of his talents--by talents
Lord Lullworth meant his seat on a pony something between twelve
and thirteen hands high--or of his disposition. (He had heard of his
habitually dining at a greasy Italian restaurant and drinking Chianti in
half flasks.)
He knew nothing about the other men, but he knew instinctively that he
would never think much of them.
And then they began to talk, and she actually listened to them and
pretended that she was interested in what they were talking about--he
was anxious to think the best of her, so he took it for granted that her
attention to what they were saying was only simulated. He was not fond
of hearing himself talk, so he did not feel all left out in the cold
while the others were--well, the exact word that was in his mind as
he listened to them was the word “jabbering.” They were jabbering, the
whole racket of them, weren’t they?
“We really can’t spare you another week, Miss Severn,” one of the racket
was saying--the eldest of them, he was as high-toned as to his dress
as a shopwalker in a first-class establishment; a _figurant_ whom he
greatly resembled in Lord Lullworth’s judgment. “Oh, no; we cannot spare
you so soon. I am holding a special class on The Novel With A Purpose.
I think you may find it interesting, though doubtless you are acquainted
with some points in the _technique_ of this class of fiction. The title,
for instance; the title must be sharp, quick, straightforward, like the
bark of a dog, you know: ‘The Atheist,’ ‘The Nigger,’ ‘The Haggis,’ ‘The
Bog-trotter,’ ‘The Humbug’--all these are taking titles; they have bark
in them. And then in regard to the Purpose--in The Novel With A Purpose,
no one should have the least idea of what the Purpose is, but one must
never be allowed to forget for a moment that the Purpose is there. It
is, however, always as well for a writer of such a novel to engage the
services of an interviewer on the eve of the publication of the novel to
tell the public how great are his aims, and then he must not forget to
talk of the sea--that sea, so full of wonder and mystery beside which
The Novel With A Purpose must be written and a hint must be dropped that
all the wonder and mystery of the sea, and the sound of the weeping of
the women and the wailing of the children, and the strong true beating
hearts of great men anxious to strangle women and to repent grandly in
the last chapter, will be found in the book, together with a fine old
story--as old as the Bible--if you forget to drag the Bible into the
interview no one will know that you have written The Novel With A
Purpose--one story will do duty for half a dozen novels: two women in
love with one man--something Biblical like that. But doubtless you have
studied the _technique_ of this class of fiction, Miss Severn.”
“I have never studied it so closely,” replied Amber. “I have always read
books for pleasure, not for analysis.”
And Lord Lullworth kept staring away at Mr. Richmond, and then at Amber.
What the mischief were they talking about anyway?
And then Willie Bateman chipped in.
“I have always regarded the Interview as obsolete,” said he. “It does
not pay the photographer’s expenses. Even the bulldog as an advertising
medium for an author has had his day--like every other dog. A publisher
told me with tears in his eyes that he saw the time when the portrait of
an author’s bull pup in a lady’s weekly journal would have exhausted
a large edition of his novel--even a volume of pathetic poems has been
known to run into a second edition of twenty-five copies after the
appearance in an evening paper of the poet’s black-muzzled, pig-tailed
pug. I’m going to give the Cat a trial some of these days. I believe
that the Manx Cat has a brilliant future in store for it, and the
Persian--perhaps a common or garden-wall cat will do as well as any
other--I wouldn’t be bound with the stringency of the laws of the Medes
and Persians as to the breed--I’d just give the Cat a chance. Properly
run I believe that it will give an author of distinction as good a show
as his boasted bull terrier.”
And Lord Lullworth stared away at the speaker. Great Queen of Sheba!
What was he talking about anyway?
And then Amber, who had been listening very politely to both of the
men who had been trying to impart their ideas to her, turned to Lord
Lull-worth and asked him if he had heard that Mr. Over-ton had purchased
The Gables, and when he replied with a grin that he hoped Overton hadn’t
paid too much money for it, Overton hastened to place his mind at ease
on this point. The purchase of the place had involved an immediate
outlay of a considerable sum of money, he admitted, but by giving up his
chambers in town and the exercise of a few radical economies he hoped to
see his way through the transaction. Would Lord Lullworth come down some
week’s end and have a look round?
Lord Lullworth smilingly asked for some superficial information
regarding the Cellar.
And then Mr. Owen Glendower Richmond and Arthur Galmyn went off
together, and when Guy Overton found that he had to hurry off--the
_cuisine_ at the Casa Maccaroni was at its best between the hours of six
and seven--Willie Bateman, who wanted to have a quiet word with him went
away by his side. (He wondered if Guy would think it worth his while to
pay a hundred pounds to have a stereo-block made of the river view of
The Gables for an evening paper, to be inserted with a historical sketch
of the house and some account of the family of the new purchaser.)
Lord Lullworth laughed pleasantly--confidentially, when he and Amber
were left alone together.
“They are all so clever,” said Amber apologetically. She had really
quite a faculty interpreting people’s thoughts.
“Yes,” said he, “they are, as you say, a rummy lot.”
Then she too laughed.
“That’s your way of putting it,” she said.
“I suppose so. What fun chaps can find in jabbering away like that beats
me. They’re a bit pinkeyed, aren’t they now?”
Amber evaded a question which might possibly be enigmatical, she
thought.
“But they are really very clever,” said she. “Arthur Galmyn was a poet,
but I saw that he had not patience enough to wait for fame to come to
him.”
“Why couldn’t he buy a practice in a populous suburban district?” asked
Lord Lullworth. “If a chap can’t succeed as a specialist in town
he should set up as a general practitioner in the suburbs or in the
provinces.”
“I suppose a poet is a sort of literary specialist,” said Amber. “Never
mind,--he is all right now: he is making money on the Stock Exchange.”
“You made him go on the Stock Exchange?”
“Oh, yes; we talked it over together. And I got Guy Overton to join the
Technical School of Literature, and I believe he is improved by doing so
already.”
“And you got the other chap to set up the school, I suppose?”
“It was an old idea of mine. When people have a Conservatoire of Music,
and the Academy School of Painting, why should the art of Literary
Composition be allowed to struggle on as best it can without instruction
or advice?”
“That’s just what I should like to know. And the other bounder--I mean
the chap who talked that about bulldogs and the cats and things--a bit
of a rotter he was, wasn’t he? Did you advise him in any direction? I
didn’t quite make out what his line was.”
“Yes, it was I who suggested to him the splendid possibilities there
were in the way of advertising things. I showed him in what a haphazard
way people advertised just now, and persuaded him that there was money
in any systematic scheme of advertising, and he has gone far ahead of
anything I ever imagined to be possible.”
“I should think he has. And what are they up to, the lot of them, can
you guess, Miss Severn?”
“Up to?--what are they up to? Why, haven’t I just explained that each of
them is making a profession----”
“Oh, yes; but do you fancy that they’re doing it for love of the
profession or for--for--any other reason?”
“I don’t quite see what you mean, Lord Lullworth.”
“It’s a bit rough to be frank with a girl; and it’s rarely that a chap
has to say just what he means, but there are times...”
He spoke apologetically and paused, allowing his smile to rest upon her
for a moment. It was the smile of a man who hopes he hasn’t gone too
far, and trusts to get out of an untenable position by the aid of a
temporising smile.
She returned his smile quite pleasantly. She knew that the sentences
over the utterance of which men hesitate are invariably the most
interesting that they have to speak.
“What is it?” she asked. “Everybody speaks frankly to me: they don’t
treat me as they do other girls, you know.”
“It’s a dangerous experiment talking frankly to a girl,” said he. “But
if it comes to that, it’s not so dangerous an experiment as a girl
talking frankly to a man--leading him to do things that he hasn’t a mind
to do--may be that he hates doing.”
“I was born in an atmosphere of experiments,” said she. “I delight
in having dealings with new forces, and making out their respective
coefficients of energy.”
“Oh; then you don’t happen to think that these chaps who were here just
now are in love with you? That’s frank enough, isn’t it?”
Her face had become roseate, but she was not angry. Whatever she may
have been she was sufficiently like other girls to be able to refrain
from getting angry at the suggestion that four young men were in love
with her at the same time.
“It’s nonsense enough,” she said. “You have quite misunderstood the
situation, Lord Lullworth. I like Guy Overton and all the others
greatly, and I hope they like me. But they are no more in love with me
than I am in love with them.”
“Do you fancy that a chap allows himself to be led about by a girl all
for the fun of the thing?” he asked.
“Why should a man think it ridiculous for a woman to be his friend and
to give him the advice of a friend--the advice that he would welcome if
it were to come from a brother?” she enquired.
“I don’t know why, but I know that he does,” said Lord Lullworth.
“Anyhow, you don’t think of any of the chaps who were here as a lover?”
“I do not,” she cried emphatically--almost eagerly.
“That’s all right,” he said quietly--almost sympathetically.
“It is all right,” she said. “I believe in the value of friendship
according to Plato.”
“Have you ever thought of calculating its coefficient of energy, or its
breaking strain?” said he.
“I do not like people who make fun--who try to make fun of what I
believe, Lord Lullworth,” said she.
“Do you dislike alarum clocks?” he asked blandly.
“Alarum clocks?” She was puzzled.
“Yes; I’m an alarum clock--one of the cheap make, I admit, but a going
concern and quite effective. I want to rattle in your ears until your
eyes are opened.”
“You certainly do the rattling very well. But I’m not asleep. I know
what you mean to say about my friends.”
“I don’t mean to say anything about them. I don’t want to try to make
them out to be quite such soft roes as you would have me think they are.
I don’t want to talk of them; I want to talk of you.”
“Of me? Well?”
“Yes, and of me.”
“Excellent topics both.”
“Yes; but the two of us only make up one topic, and this is it. Now
listen. Your mother asked me to call and have tea some afternoon. If
she hadn’t asked me I would have asked her permission to do so. I came
pretty soon after her invitation, didn’t I?”
“I’m so sorry that she has a Committee meeting this afternoon.”
“It doesn’t make any difference to me--that is, in what I have to say to
you. And what I have to say to you is this; I came early to see you
and I’m coming often--very often--you have no notion how often--I don’t
believe I quite know it myself. Now no matter how often I come I
want you to understand distinctly from the first that I disclaim all
intention of using Plato as an umbrella to sit under with you. I am
coming in a strictly anti-Platonic spirit.”
He had grown a bit red and she had flushed all over.
“Go on--go on; tell me all you have to say; it’s
quite--quite--funny--yes, funny,” she said, and there was something
of bewilderment in her voice. “I never--never--heard anything so--so
queer--so straightforward. Go on.”
“I have really said all that I came to say--maybe a trifle more,” he
said. “I’m not going to make an ass of myself leading you to fancy that
I’m coming here as a casual acquaintance having no designs in my heart
against you--I mean, for you. I don’t want you to fancy that I’m coming
here to talk to you about books, or pictures, for the sake of exchanging
opinions in a strictly platonic way. No, I want you to know from the
outset that I’m coming as a possible lover.”
“I understand--oh, quite clearly--you have made the position quite clear
to me; only let me tell you at once, Lord Lullworth that--that----”
“Now there you go treating me as disdainfully as if I had actually
declared myself to be your lover. I’m nothing of the sort, let me tell
you. I’m only the rough material out of which a lover may be formed. I’m
a possible lover, so I should be treated very gently--just the way that
you would treat a baby feeling that it may one day grow up to be a man.
At the same time nothing may really come of the business. Cupid, the god
of love is always shown as a child, because the people who started the
idea had before them the statistics of infant mortality; so many little
Loves die when they are young and never grow up at all.”
“They do--they do. Isn’t it a blessing? You have only seen me twice and
yet you----”
“My dear Miss Severn, I’ve seen you very often. I have been looking at
you for the past eighteen months, and I thought you the nicest girl
I had ever seen. I found out who you were, and it was I who got old
Shirley to get up his dinner to give me a chance of meeting you; and I
found you nicer even than I allowed myself to hope you would be. So I’m
coming to see you very often on the chance that something may come of
it. If after a while--a year or so--you find me a bit of a bore, you
just tell me to clear off, and I’ll clear without a back word. Now you
know just what my idea is. I’m not a lover yet but I may grow up to be
a lover. You may tell Lady Severn all this--and your father too, if you
think it worth while--if you think anything will come of the business.”
“I won’t trouble either of them. It’s not worth while.”
“I dare say you are right--only... Well, you are forewarned anyway.
Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said she. “This is the second time I have seen you in my
life. I don’t care how soon you come again, but if you never do come
again I promise you that my pillow will not be wet with bitter tears of
disappointment.”
“Same here,” he cried briskly, when he was at the door. He laughed and
went out and closed the door. In a moment, however, he opened the door,
and took a step towards her.
“No; I find that I was wrong--I should not have said ‘same here.’ As a
matter of fact, I find that I’m more of a lover than I thought. Since I
have been with you here I am twice the lover that I was when I entered
this room. No, I should be greatly disappointed if you were to tell me
that I must not return.”
“Then I won’t; only... oh, take my advice and hurry away before I have
time to say what I have on my mind to say.”
“I know it already; and I also know that you’ll never tell it to me.
Good-bye again.”