“ONE OF YOUR GREATEST ADMIRERS.”
It was a perfect afternoon, and Hurlingham was crowded. Every seat
bordering the polo ground was occupied, and the brilliant hues of hats,
gowns, and parasols made a sort of ribbon border to the brilliant green
turf. Mr. West--a fussy or punctual man, according to people’s point of
view--had arrived early with his party, and, so to speak, planted his
fair charges under one of the umbrella awnings, and in a most central
and commanding situation, where Madeline, in a white costume, which set
off her vivid dark beauty, was seen and greeted by many acquaintances.
Lord Montycute, Captain Vansittart, and a smart lady friend (Mrs.
Veryphast) shared the shade of the canvas umbrella, and spasmodically
proffered morsels of the latest and choicest news, for the polo was
absorbing, the match very fast and closely contested, the excitement
intense. During an interval Lady Rachel drifted near--clad in a rainbow
costume, and talking volubly and emphatically to a man. Her quick,
roving eye caught sight of Madeline’s comfortable little party, and she
swept down upon her at once.
“Oh, Maddie, my dear girl, how nice and cool you look, and I’m half
dead, standing baking in the sun, and not a chair to be had for love
or money! Ah, you have two to spare, I see! Here--here is actually one
for _you_.” She called to her escort, who had stopped to speak to a
passing friend. “Madeline,” she continued, “I think you know Mr. Wynne,
who writes. Mr. Wynne, Miss West is one of your greatest admirers! She
knows all your stories by heart.”
This was a fiction, invented on the spur of the moment. Her ladyship
coined many a little lie.
Madeline looked up bewildered. The gentleman who was taking off his
hat to her was--Laurence!--and yet not Laurence. What had he done to
himself? He had discarded his beard, and was fashionably clean-shaven;
moreover he was fashionably dressed in the orthodox long frock-coat,
and wore a flower in his buttonhole, and the most absolutely correct
gloves and tie.
So much depends upon the style, shape, and colour of a man’s tie--and
the very maker’s name! A rashly selected tie may stamp a man’s taste
quite as fatally as the wrong number and pattern of buttons proclaim
the date of his coat!
The removal of his beard had entirely changed Laurence Wynne’s
appearance. He looked much younger: he had a very square chin, his
mouth was expressive--more sarcastic than smiling--with thin, firmly
closed, but well-cut lips. Had she known of that mouth and chin, had
she guessed at them--well, she would have thought twice before she
married their proprietor. As she looked up she coloured to her hair
when she met his steady, cool glance. This meeting was no surprise
to him, for he had noted the _entrée_ of the beauty, her marvellous
costume, and her train of admirers. He had not, however, intended
to come to such close quarters. He was taken unawares when he
found himself in her neighbourhood, and he was determined to escape
immediately, in spite of Lady Rachel. The silence that followed Lady
Rachel’s loud prattle was becoming noticeable, and curious eyes were
turned upon him when he said very distinctly--
“I don’t know if I am so fortunate as to be remembered by--Miss West?”
“Oh yes,” she answered, rather obviously avoiding looking at him, with
a bright patch of colour on either cheek.
“Miss West has such an enormous acquaintance of young men that she must
get a little confused sometimes--a little mixed, don’t you, Maddie?
Now, Mr. Wynne, I see what you are up to,” said Lady Rachel; “but
no, you shall not run away. Here, sit upon this chair. I had great
difficulty in capturing you, you are so run-after and spoilt, and now
I am not going to let you desert. You ought to be thankful for a seat
in the shade, and amongst such pleasant company!” As he reluctantly
seated himself at the very outskirts of the group, she continued--“Now,
you must not sit there looking like a snared animal, watching for
some chance of escape. Do tell me all about the heroine of your last
story. How is it that you are so familiar with all our little ways, and
weaknesses? You know too much. One would almost suppose that you were a
married man!”
“I think it must be time to go to tea,” said Madeline, glancing
appealingly at her father, who had just joined them.
“Tea! Don’t you wish you may get it! There is not a single vacant table
on the lawn. I’ve just been to look. Hullo! Ah--er--Wynne, how do you
do?”
Mr. Wynne had been pointed out to him as a rising junior at the bar--a
coming man in literature, who wielded an able pen, and was quite one
of the season’s minor celebrities. His sketches were a feature of the
day--a short one, naturally. Every one was talking of him.
Mr. West loved a celebrity--if he was gentlemanly and in good society,
_bien entendu_--nearly as much as he loved a lord, but not quite; and
he added--
“I remember you were at our house last winter, and you are interested
in paintings and art. You must look us up, eh?--and come and dine.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“We’ve just come back from the Riviera. Delightful place! Were you ever
there?”
“No, I’ve never been nearer to it than Lyons.”
“But I’ve been there,” broke in Lady Rachel; “and I shall never go
again, on account of the earthquakes, although it was capital fun at
the time.”
“Fun!” repeated Mr. West, with a look of amazement.
“Yes, half the refugees were running about in blankets fastened with
hairpins, afraid to return for their clothes. Oh, they were too absurd!
A whole train full went to Paris in their dressing-gowns--some in bare
feet. Every one was different--‘out of themselves,’ as they say in
France. One old lady, in her mad excitement in speeding some relations,
actually tore off her wig and waved it after them.”
“Poor old dear! _How_ she must have regretted it subsequently!” said
Lord Montycute. “My sister was there at the same time, and paid twenty
pounds a night for the luxury of sleeping in the hotel omnibus.
Nothing would induce her to go to bed indoors. The hotel was cracked
from top to bottom!”
“I don’t care for the Riviera,” remarked Lady Rachel. “It’s too hot,
and the scenery is ridiculously gaudy. It always reminded me of a
drop-scene. I declare to you, sitting on a promenade, facing the blue
sea and blue sky, and pale, buff promontories and palms, with a band
playing in the neighbourhood, I have felt as if I was in the stalls of
a theatre.”
“Oh, shame!” cried Mrs. Leach. “You have no feeling for the beauties of
Nature.”
“I thought Monte Carlo lovely--the garden too exquisite for words.”
“And the tables?” inquired Mr. West significantly.
“Yes, I had my own _pet_ table; and at first I was successful. I
always went on the ‘doz-ens,’ or ‘passe.’ One day I made ninety pounds
in an hour; but, alas! I lost it all in about ten minutes.”
“The tables always _do_ win in the long run,” said Mr. West,
sententiously.
“Yes,” agreed Lord Montycute, “they have no feeling, no emotions. When
they gain they are not excited; when they lose they are not depressed;
and this is their advantage.”
“Oh, but they cannot leave off if they _are_ losing,” cried Lady
Rachel. “We score there.”
“_You_ did not score, at any rate,” remarked Mrs. Leach, with a smile.
“No; I wish I _had_ left off. There is Mrs. Raymond Tufto. Did you see
her at Nice, Madeline?”
“Oh yes; she went everywhere.”
“She is wearing that same flower toque. I _am_ so sick of it,” cried
Mrs. Veryphast, impatiently.
“Nevertheless she is one of the prettiest women in London,” observed
Captain Vansittart. “She has such a saintly expression, and she looks
so _good_.”
“She is a horribly heartless wretch. She goes off for months on the
Continent, and leaves her children to nurses at home,” said Lady
Rachel, viciously. “She has one dear little tot of two, that actually
does not know her by sight.”
“It is quite the French fashion to board out babies,” remarked Mrs.
Leach, who was invariably in opposition to Lady Rachel.
“Turn them out to walk like young hounds,” drawled Captain Vansittart.
“Mrs. Tufto, bad as she may be, is nothing to Lady Blazer,” continued
Mrs. Leach, impressively. “She has a nursery full of girls, and yet,
what _do_ you think? When she was asked the other day to subscribe
to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, she said,
‘Delighted! There is only one species of animal I loathe, and that’s a
_child_.’”
“Oh, I say--come! I don’t believe that,” cried Mr. West, “of any
woman--or even a man. I’m rather partial to _nice_ small children
myself.”
“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, turning on him suddenly, “why are you so
silent? You know it is your _métier_ to talk.”
“Then why do you grudge me a well-earned holiday?” he asked
imperturbably.
“I believe you are studying us for your next sketch; taking us in your
literary kodak.”
“No, indeed! I am not a reporter for a society paper.”
“Oh, I don’t mean about our dresses and hats, or that; I mean character
sketches.”
“How I should like to sit to you for _mine_!” said Mrs. Veryphast,
vivaciously, moving her chair an inch or two nearer to his. “I _do_
wish you would make a study of me, and put me in one of your charming
stories or dialogues.”
“It would have a fabulous circulation if _you_ were the heroine,” said
Lord Montycute, with a bow.
Mrs. Veryphast smiled, well pleased. She was not always able to
distinguish between impertinence and flattery. Mrs. Veryphast was
evidently anxious to annex another ladies’ friend, who had edged
himself so far away that he was quite an outsider. But he would not be
appropriated, neither could he effect his escape.
“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, briskly, “you are up in all the
principal subjects of the day. Do tell us what you think of the new
woman.”
“That she will be an old woman in a few years.”
“So shall I. You are meanly evading the question.”
“I think----Let me think again.”
“You mean, let me _dream_ again. You seem to be half asleep this
afternoon. Well?”
“On reflection, I consider that she is a devastating social influence.”
“That can be read in two ways, you wary fox. What is your opinion of
the emancipation of women--wives especially?”
“Upon my word! Lady Rachel, I must protest!” he answered, with a
somewhat fixed smile. “You are endeavouring to obtain my opinion
gratis. I cannot afford it. How am I to live?”
Meanwhile Madeline, looking rather pale, listened furtively to this
passage of arms.
“I think you are _too_ horrid. At any-rate, it cannot hurt your pocket
to tell me if you approve of the higher education of my sex.”
“No; I prefer the ancient Greek mode--complete isolation,
wool-spinning, and no books.”
“Gracious! I shall pity your _wife_.”
His eyes and Madeline’s met for one half-second all the way across Lady
Rachel’s bonnet and Captain Vansittart’s broad shoulders. Then he stood
up.
“What--going? Oh, Mr. Wynne!” protested his captor, with a little
scream.
“I am extremely sorry; but I really _must_. I see a man over there that
I want to speak to particularly; and I shall lose sight of him if I
don’t look sharp.” And taking off his hat with a comprehensive smile,
he was gone.
Yes, Madeline watched him under her parasol. He looked as well as any
one--in fact, quite distinguished. She wondered vaguely who was his
tailor.
Then people began to discuss him, and she gathered by a word from
Mrs. Veryphast, and another from Captain Vansittart, that the general
opinion of Laurence Wynne was highly favourable.
“Of fine old stock, but poor; but brains, and good race, ought to bring
him something,” said Mrs. Leach.
“An heiress!” suggested Mrs. Veryphast, with a giggle. “And now I
propose that we do adjourn, and go to tea.”
From a distance Laurence noted the party _en route_ to refreshments,
Madeline and Lord Montycute bringing up the rear. She belonged to
another world than his, there was no room in her life for him and
Harry. As he had chafed in Lady Rachel’s chains, he had caught snatches
of the conversation of the butterflies who fluttered round his wife.
He heard of balls, river parties, rides, picnics. He was aware that
Miss West’s society was in immense demand; he caught one laughing
announcement “that she had four engagements for the next evening, and
not a spare hour for the next three weeks.”
Not long after that, as he and a friend were walking down to Parsons
Green station, they were passed by a splendid carriage, which gave a
glimpse of two frothy-looking parasols, and two tall hats.
“There goes Miss West,” explained his companion, “the Australian
heiress and beauty, with Lord Tony on the back seat. I hear it is
quite settled, they are to be married in the autumn.”
“Are they? Who is your authority?”
“I can’t say; it’s in the air. I wonder she was not snapped up, long
ago, for although old West is about as common as they make ’em, yet
every one allows that his daughter is charming.”