When Dudley got back he found Hal waiting up for him, with an
expression of shining eagerness on her face.
“Oh, Dudley, such fun!” she began, “Lorraine has got the royal box for
me for Thursday evening. We must have a little dinner-party. Who shall
we take? It holds four comfortably, and two men could stand at the
back.”
“Thursday evening!” looking a little taken aback. “I am engaged.”
“Engaged! Well, you must put it off. Why didn’t you tell me? I thought
you said you had any night free except Friday.”
“I only made the engagement this evening.”
“Are you going to see Basil again? He won’t mind being put off.”
“No. It isn’t Basil.”
“What then?”
Dudley turned away, threw his gloves carelessly down on a sidetable,
and picked up some letters.
“I asked Doris to go to the White City with me.”
“You—you asked Doris to go to the White City?...” she repeated
incredulously. “What in the world for?”
“To see it, of course. What else should I ask her for?”
“Oh, Heaven only knows! Why ask her at all? I should certainly upset
her into the canal from sheer irritation if she came with me.”
“Such nonsense.” He knit his forehead into a decided frown. “You are so
unfair to Doris. You used to complain that I was unfair to Lorraine. I
was never as unfair as you are now. You don’t really know Doris at all;
and she has never done anything to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t follow that she wouldn’t if she had the chance. You’re so
awfully dense about women, Dudley. Why didn’t you invite Ethel instead?
She is worth a hundred Dorises. Then we could have taken her to the
theatre.”
His voice and manner grew very cold.
“I don’t agree with you, but it is not a subject I care to discuss. Is
there any reason why Doris should not be invited to the theatre?”
“None whatever, except that I don’t propose to ask her.”
They faced each other a moment almost angrily, except that whereas
Dudley was distinctly vexed, Hal was a little scornful, and
half-laughing.
“Then I cannot come either, and”—he paused a moment, to add with
decision—“I object to your going unchaperoned.”
“Do you mean that you wish me to give up the box?”
“You know what I mean.”
Hal was thoughtful a moment, and then remarked with sudden glee:
“I know what I’ll do. I’ll take the Three Graces, and persuade Quin’s
aunt to come as chaperone. Then we’ll all have supper with Lorraine
afterwards. You shall have a nice, quiet, interesting evening with
Doris, and I’ll get two stalls for you for another night.”
She moved about, gathering up her things.
“You don’t know Quin’s aunt, Lady Bounce, do you? She’s the dearest old
soul, and she loves a theatre. Night-night, old boy; don’t keep Doris
too long near the canal, in case you are taken with my inclination”;
and she went gaily off, humming a popular air.
Dudley read through his letters without grasping any of their contents.
For the first time Hal’s attitude to Doris seriously worried him, and
he felt vaguely there was trouble ahead.
But when Thursday came, and they were together, she again had the same
pleasing effect upon his senses, and he let himself be persuaded that
if Hal grew to know her better, she could not choose but grow fond of
her.
In the meantime a group in the royal box at the Greenway Theatre was
causing no small interest to a crowded house.
There was Hal, with her smart, well-groomed air, gleaming white neck
and arms, and her white, even teeth that looked so attractive even in
the distance when she smiled.
Dick Bruce, spruce and scholarly, hugely pleased with himself, because
he had an article in _The National Review_, on the strength of the
colonies in war time; and some lines entitled “Baby’s Boredom” in
_Fireside Chat_, concerning which he had already announced his
intention of standing the champagne for their supper with the cheque.
Of the other two occupants it would be difficult to say which attracted
the most attention. Alymer Hermon, with his immense stature and
splendid head, or Quin’s aunt, Lady Bounce, who presented so striking a
resemblance to another well-known little old lady sometimes seen at the
theatre, that friends of the last-mentioned were utterly puzzled.
Surely only one little lady in London wore that early Victorian dress,
with the ringlets and “grande dame” air, and sat with such genuine
delight and enjoyment through a play? And yet why did she not look out
for her numerous friends, down there in the stalls, and recognise them?
And who in the world was she with? If that were indeed Lady Phyllis
Fenton—and it seemed incredible it should not be—who was the splendid
young giant, and who the white-faced girl with the brilliant smile?
And all the time, absorbed in the play and her companions, the little
old lady smiled and talked, calmly indifferent to the many eyes below
waiting for the expected bow of recognition.
Quin, apparently, had not been willing to desert his slummers for a gay
West-end theatre; so Hal was only escorted by two Graces instead of
three, but the light in her eyes, for any one near enough to see,
suggested she was enjoying herself to the utmost in spite of it.
Then came the final sensation, of the little old lady in her strange
costume and ringlets, passing through the vestibule, on the arm of the
young giant, followed by the sleek-looking, well-groomed pair of
cousins, who chatted to each other with an air of the utmost unconcern
towards the curious glances now levelled at them upon all sides.
“It _must_ be Lady Phyllis Fenton,” said some. “It _can’t_ be,” said
others. “Then who the devil is it?” asked the men.
And still the little group passed on, smiling and unconcerned, though a
red spot burned in the giant’s smooth cheeks, and he carefully avoided
any possibility of meeting Hal’s gleaming eyes.
A roomy electric brougham was awaiting them, and then the watchers said
it glided away: “Surely that is Lady Phyllis’s car and liveries?”
But what they would have made of the scene inside the car it is
difficult to say, for the dear little old lady suddenly collapsed
backwards on her seat, with a howl of laughter, and shot into the air a
pair of trousered legs.
“Oh my conscience!” gasped Quin, amid choking laughter. “It will be the
sensation of the season; and when Aunt Phyllis gets to hear about it
she’ll first have a fit with wrath and then laugh until she’s ill.”
“I’d no idea you were such an actor, Quin,” Hal exclaimed admiringly
when she could speak; “you ought be holding crowded houses enthralled,
instead of slumming.”
“Heaven preserve me. Theatres are mostly mummies looking at mummies.
Down east I get in touch with flesh and blood—the real thing; and I
prefer it. But I wouldn’t have missed tonight for something. Oh,
lord!... just think of the people who know Aunt Phyllis that I must
have cut; and all the fuss there will be when aunt is admonished for
supping at the Savoy with an actress! We aren’t half through the fun
yet.”
With which they all went off into fresh peals of laughter, at various
reminiscences, and were bordering upon a condition of imbecility when
Lorraine at last joined them with the latest news.
“It’s positively immense,” she said. “The manager told me Lady Phyllis
Fenton had come with Miss Pritchard, and tomorrow every paper will
announce it, and the mystery will grow. I ’phoned for a private room at
the Savoy, to keep the puzzle up. She must only be seen passing through
on Mr. Hermon’s arm. How splendid they must look. I almost wish I
wasn’t in the secret.”
“Oh, they do!” Hal cried. “Alymer ought to have had knee breeches and
silk stockings, and they would look just perfect. I have to talk fast
to Dick, or I should give it all away in my face.”
“You’ll have to settle with your aunt,” Lorraine laughed to Quin. “I
hope she won’t cut you off with a shilling.”
“She will be furiously angry and terrifically interested,” he said. “I
expect I shall have to take you all to dinner to show her what the
party looked like. Of course, Bonne, her maid, will give it away,
because I borrowed the garments from her, and said they were for a play
I was getting up in the East End.”
“You’ll have a bad half-hour with Dudley,” Dick remarked to Hal, with
enjoyment. “He is sure to hear of it somewhere.”
“Quite sure,” resignedly; “but if it were a bad two hours it would
still have been worth it. It reminds me of the old days at school,
Lorraine, when we used to get into scrapes on purpose, if the fun made
it worth while.”
There was no gayer supper party in the Savoy that night, and the
champagne paid for with the proceeds of “Baby’s Boredom” proved none
the less vivifying for the insipidity of its source. Dick insisted upon
reciting his doggerel, and Quin was not only much toasted as “Lady
Bounce”, but carried kicking round the room by the giant, because in a
moment of forgetfulness he used a swear-word, which they all insisted
was a reflecton upon the conversation of his illustrious aunt.
Lorraine, in most amusing form herself, laughed until she was tired
out, and wondered why she was not bored. She asked the question of
Alymer Hermon, who was privileged to see her home, while Dick returned
with Hal, and Quin beat a hasty retreat to get rid of his disguise.
“After all, you are only boys,” she said, with a little smile, “and
I’m... well, I’m Lorraine Vivian.”
The giant gazed thoughtfully out of the brougham window a moment, and
from her corner Lorraine looked long, and a little sadly, at the finely
modelled head and profile.
“Perhaps,” he said at length, “a great many people you meet make a
special effort to please you, and try to make an impression on you. We
being all so young, and just nobodies, realise the uselessness of
wasting our efforts, and are merely natural.”
She smiled in the shadow, and glanced away from him with the sadness
deepening.
“I feel tonight I should like to be one of you—so young and just
nobody. It would be a pleasant change.”
“I don’t think you would like it at all.”
He looked at her with a slightly puzzled air.
“Only the other day you were speaking to me of achievement and
ambition. You seemed to care so much. You must be glad.”
“Oh yes, yes,” wearily; “but it isn’t enough by itself. There is
something I have missed, and tonight I feel that it might outweight all
the rest—something to do with being young, and careless, and fresh, and
just nobody.”
Still looking at her with slightly puzzled, very kindly eyes, he
answered simply, “I’m so sorry.”
She seemed to shrink away suddenly into her corner. The very simplicity
of his sympathy, and the quiet, natural friendliness in his face,
stirred some strange chord in her heart with a swift, unaccountable
ache. He looked so big and strong and splendid there in the shadow,
with his freshness and his charm; and she felt very brain-fagged and
world-weary; and without in the least knowing why, or what led up to
the desire, she wanted to feel his arms about her, and his freshness
soothing her spirit.
And instead he was not even attempting to make love to her, not even
flirting with her. Would any other man she knew have ridden beside her
thus after the gentleness she had shown? Was that perhaps the very
secret of his attraction? Or was it a physical allurement—the
irresistible charm of bigness and strength, independent of anything
else, drawing with its time-old sway?
She had no time to probe further, as the brougham stopped at her door.
He handed her out with the deference so often met with in big men,
remarking with an old-fashioned air that suited him to perfection:
“I’m afraid we have all tired you very much. It was good of you to come
with us. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”
“Oh, indeed no; you refreshed me. Good-night. Stevens will run you
home. Don’t forget Sunday”, and she moved away.
“It must be his bigness,” was her last thought as her head touched the
pillow. “When I am used to it, no doubt the novelty will pass, and I
shall find him merely boyish, and be rather bored.”
“I wonder if it is her dainty smallness,” Dudley was musing, away in
his Bloomsbury lodging, feeling still, with a pleasant thrill, the
touch of Doris’s small hand on his arm, and seeing again the upward,
confiding expression in her wide blue eyes. “Odd that Hal should be so
far astray in her judgment, when she is usually so clever; but if she
knew her better she would change her mind.”
As for Hal herself, she hastily tumbled into bed, still chuckling in
huge enjoyment over her evening.
“Those boys are just dears,” was her thought, “and I wouldn’t have
missed Lady Bounce for the world. What a good thing Dudley was taken
with paternal affection for that little fool Doris, and I had to have a
chaperone. Heigh-ho! what a scene there will be if he hears about it;
but what’s the odds so long as you’re happy? And oh dear! what will
Lady Phyllis Fenton say when she finds out”; and once more the even
teeth flashed an irresistible smile into the darkness.