AN EPILOGUE
Audrey was walking along Piccadilly when she overtook Miss Ingate, who had
been arrested by a shop window, the window of one of the shops recently
included in the vast edifice of the Hotel Majestic.
Miss Ingate gave a little squeal of surprise. The two kissed very heartily
in the street, which was full of spring and of the posters of evening
papers bearing melodramatic tidings of the latest nocturnal development of
the terrible suffragette campaign.
"You said eleven, Audrey. It isn't eleven yet."
"Well, I'm behind time. I meant to be all spruced up and receive you in
state at the hotel. But the boat was three hours late at Harwich. I jumped
into a cab at Liverpool Street, but I got out at Piccadilly Circus because
the streets looked so fine and I felt I really must walk a bit."
"And where's your husband?"
"He's at Liverpool Street trying to look after the luggage. He lost some of
it at Hamburg. He likes looking after luggage, so I just left him at it."
Miss Ingate's lower lip dropped at the corners.
"You've had a tiff."
"Winnie, we haven't."
"Did you go to all his concerts?"
"All. I heard all his practising, and I sat in the stalls at all his
concerts. Quite contrary to my principles, of course. But, Winnie, it's
very queer, I _wanted_ to do it. So naturally I did it. We've never been
apart--until now."
"And it's not exaggerated, what you've written me about his success?"
"Not a bit. I've been most careful not to exaggerate. In fact, I've tried
to be gloomy. No use, however! It was a triumph.... And how's all this
business?" Audrey demanded, in a new key, indicating an orange-tinted
newspaper bill that was being flaunted in front of her.
"Oh! I believe it's dreadful. Of course, you know Rosamund's in prison. But
they'll have to let her out soon. Jane Foley--she still calls herself
Foley--hasn't been caught. And that's funny. I doubled my subscription. We
had to, you see. But that's all I've done. They don't have processions and
things now, and barrel organs are _quite_ out of fashion. What with that,
and my rheumatism!... I used to think I should live to vote myself. I feel
I shan't now. So I've gone back into water-colours. They're very soothing,
if you let the paper dry after each wash and don't take them seriously....
Now, I'm a very common-sense woman, Audrey, as you must have noticed, and
I'm not subject to fancies. Will you just look at the girl on the left hand
in this window here, and tell me whether I'm dreaming or not?"
Miss Ingate indicated the shop window which had arrested her. The
establishment was that of a hair specialist, and the window was mainly
occupied by two girls who sat in arm-chairs with their backs to the glass,
and all their magnificent hair spread out at length over the backs of the
chairs for the inspection of the public; the implication being that the
magnificent hair was due to the specific of the hair specialist. Passers-by
continually stopped to gaze at the spectacle, but they never stopped long,
because the spectacle was monotonous.
"Well, what about her?" said Audrey, staring.
"Isn't it Lady Southminster?"
"Good heavens!" Audrey's mind went back to the Channel packet and the rain
squall and the scenes on the Paris train. "So it is! Whatever can have
happened to her? Let's go in."
And in they went, Audrey leading, and demanding at once a bottle of the
specific; Audrey had scarcely spoken when the left-hand girl in the window,
who, of course, from her vantage had a full view of the shop, screamed
lightly and jumped down from the window.
"Don't give me away!" she whispered appealingly in Audrey's ear. The next
moment, not heeding the excitement of the shop manager, she had drawn
Audrey and Miss Ingate through another door which led into the
entrance-hall of the Majestic Hotel. The shop was thus contrived to catch
two publics at once.
"If they knew I was Lady Southminster in there," said Lady Southminster in
a feverish murmur--she seemed not averse to the sensation caused by her
hair in the twilight of the hotel--"I expect I should lose my place, and I
don't want to lose it. _He'll_ be coming by presently, and he'll see me,
and it'll be a lesson to him. We're always together. Race meetings, dances,
golf, restaurants, bridge. Twenty-four hours every day. He won't lose sight
of me. He's that fond of me, you know. I couldn't stand it. I'd as lief be
in prison--only I'm that fond of him, you know. But I was so homesick, and
I felt if I didn't have a change I should burst. This is
Constantinopoulos's old shop, you know, where I used to make cigarettes in
the window. He's dead, Constantinopoulos is. I don't know what _he'd_ have
said to hair restorers. I asked for the place, and I showed 'em my hair,
and I got it. And me sitting there--it's quite like old times. Only
before, you know, I used to have my face to the street. I don't know which
I like best. But, anyhow, you can see my profile from the side window. And
_he_ will. He always looks at that sort of thing. He'll be furious. But it
will do him no end of good. Well, good-bye. But come back in and buy a
bottle, or I shall be let in for a shindy. In fact, you might buy two
bottles."
"So that's love!" said Audrey when the transaction was over and they were
in the entrance-hall again.
"No," said Miss Ingate. "That's marriage. And don't you forget it....
Hallo, Tommy!"
"You'd better not let Mr. Gilman hear me called Tommy in this hotel,"
laughed Miss Thompkins, who was attired with an unusual richness, as she
advanced towards Miss Ingate and Audrey. "And what are you doing here?" she
questioned Audrey.
"I'm staying here," said Audrey. "But I've only just arrived. I'm advance
agent for my husband. How are you? And what are _you_ doing here? I thought
you hated London."
"I came the day before yesterday," Tommy replied. "And I'm very fit. You
see, Mr. Gilman preferred us to be married in London. And I'd no objection.
So here I am. The wedding's to-morrow. You aren't very startled, are you?
Had you heard?"
"Well," said Audrey, "not what you'd call 'heard.' But I'd a sort of a kind
of a--"
"You come right over here, young woman."
"But I want to get my number."
"You come right over here right now," Tommy insisted. And in another
corner of the entrance-hall she spoke thus, and there was both seriousness
and fun in her voice: "Don't you run away with the idea that I'm taking
your leavings, young woman. Because I'm not. We all knew you'd lost your
head about Musa, and it was quite right of you. But you never had a chance
with Ernest, though you thought you had, after I'd met him. Admit I'm much
better suited for him than you'd have been. I'd only one difficulty, and
that was the nice boy Price, who wanted to drown himself for my beautiful
freckled face. That's all. Now you can go and get your number."
The incident might not have ended there had not Madame Piriac appeared in
the entrance-hall out of the interior of the hotel.
"He exacted my coming," said Madame Piriac privately to Audrey. "You know
how he is strange. He asks for a quiet wedding, but at the same time it
must be all that is most correct. There are things, he says, which demand a
woman.... I know four times nothing of the English etiquette. I have
abandoned my husband. And here I am. _Voilà_! Listen. She has great skill
with him, _cette Tommy_. Nevertheless, I have the intention to counsel her
about her complexion. Impossible to keep any man with a complexion like
hers!"
They saw Mr. Gilman himself enter the hotel. He was very nervous and very
important. As soon as he caught sight of Miss Thompkins he said to the
door-keeper:
"Tell my chauffeur to wait."
He was punctiliously attentive to Miss Thompkins, and held her hand for two
seconds after he had practically finished with it.
"Are you ready, dear?" he said. "You'll be sorry to hear that my liver is
all wrong again. I knew it was because I slept so heavily."
These words were distinctly heard by Audrey herself.
"I think I'll slip upstairs now," she murmured to Madame Piriac. And
vanished, before Mr. Gilman had observed her presence.
She thought:
"How he has aged!"
Scarcely ten minutes later, when Audrey was upstairs in her sitting-room,
waiting idly for the luggage and her husband to arrive, and thinking upon
the case of Lady Southminster, the telephone bell rang out startlingly.
"Mr. Shinner to see you."
"Mr. Shinner? Oh! Mr. Shinner. Send him up, please."
This Mr. Shinner was the concert agent with connections in Paris whom
Audrey had first consulted in the enterprise of launching Musa upon the
French public. He was a large, dark man, black moustached and bearded, with
heavy limbs and features, and an opaque, pimpled skin. In spite of these
characteristics, he entered the room soft-footed as a fairy, ingratiating
as a dog aware of his own iniquity, reassuring as applause.
"Well, Mr. Shinner. But how did you know we were here? As a matter of fact
we aren't here. My husband has not arrived yet."
"Madam," said Mr. Shinner, "I happened to hear that you had telegraphed for
rooms, and as I was in the neighbourhood I thought I would venture to
call."
"But who told you we had telegraphed for rooms?"
"The manager is a good friend of mine, and as you are now famous----" Ah! I
have heard all about the German tour. I mean I have read about it. I
subscribe to the German musical papers. One must, in my profession. Also I
have had direct news from my correspondents in Germany. It was a triumph
there, was it not?"
"Yes," said Audrey. "After Dusseldorf. My husband did not make much
money----"
"That will not trouble you," Mr. Shinner smiled easily.
"But somebody did--the agents did."
"Perhaps not so much as you think, madam, if I may say so. Perhaps not so
much as you think. And we must all live--unfortunately. Has your husband
made any arrangements yet for London or for a provincial tour? I have
reason to think that the season will be particularly brilliant. And I can
now offer advantages----"
"But, Mr. Shinner, when I last saw you, and it isn't so very long ago, you
told me that my husband was not a concert-player, which was exactly what I
had heard in Paris."
"I didn't go quite so far as that, surely, did I?" Mr. Shinner softly
insinuated. He might have been pouring honey from his mouth. "Surely I
didn't say quite that? And perhaps I had been too much influenced by
Paris."
"Yes, you said he wasn't a concert-player and never would be----"
"Don't rub it in, madam," said Mr. Shinner merrily. "_Peccavi_."
"What's that?"
"Nothing, nothing, madam," he disclaimed.
"And you said there were far too many violinists on the market, and that it
was useless for a French player to offer himself to the London musical
public. And I don't know what you didn't say."
"But I didn't know then that your husband would have such a success in
Germany."
"What difference does that make?"
"Madam," said Mr. Shinner, "it makes every difference."
"But England and Germany hate each other. At least they despise each other.
And what's more, nearly everybody in Germany was talking about going to war
this summer. I was told they are all ready to invade England after they
have taken Paris and Calais. We heard it everywhere."
"I don't know anything about any war," said Mr. Shinner with tranquillity.
"But I do know that the London musical public depends absolutely on
Germany. The only first-class instrumentalist that England has ever
produced had no success here until he went to Germany and Germanised his
name and himself and announced that he despised England. Then he came back,
and he has caused a furore ever since. So far as regards London, a success
in Karlsruhe, Wiesbaden, Leipzig, Dusseldorf, and so on, is worth far more
than a success in the Queen's Hall. Indeed--can you get a success in the
Queen's Hall without a success in these places first? I doubt it. Your
husband now has London at his feet. Not Paris, though he may capture Paris
after he has captured London. But London certainly. He cannot find a better
agent than myself. All artists like me, because I _understand_. You see, my
mother was harpist to the late Queen."
"But----"
"Your husband is assuredly a genius, madam!" Mr. Shinner stood up in his
enthusiasm, and banged his left fist with his right palm.
"Yes, I know that," said Audrey. "But you are such an expensive luxury."
Mr. Shinner pushed away the accusation with both hands. "Madam, madam, I
shall take all the risks. I should not dream, now, of asking for a cheque
on account. On the contrary, I should guarantee a percentage of the gross
receipts. Perhaps I am unwise to take risks--I dare say I am--but I could
not bear to see your husband in the hands of another agent. We professional
men have our feelings."
"Don't cry, Mr. Shinner," said Audrey impulsively. It was not a proper
remark to make, but the sudden impetuous entrance of Musa himself, carrying
his violin case, eased the situation.
"There is a man which is asking for you outside in the corridor," said Musa
to his wife. "It is the gardener, Aguilar, I think. I have brought all the
luggage, not excluding that which was lost at Hamburg." He had a glorious
air, and was probably more proud of his still improving English and of his
ability as a courier than of his triumphs on the fiddle. "Ah!" Mr. Shinner
was bowing before him.
"This is Mr. Shinner, the agent, my love," said Audrey. "I'll leave you to
talk to him. He sees money in you."
In the passage the authentic Aguilar stood with Miss Ingate.
"Here's Mr. Aguilar," said Miss Ingate. "I'm just going into No. 37, Madame
Piriac's room. Don't you think Mr. Aguilar looks vehy odd in London?"
"Good morning, Aguilar. You in town on business?"
Aguilar touched his forehead. It is possible that he looked very odd in
London, but he was wearing a most respectable new suit of clothes, and
might well have passed for a land agent.
"'Mornin', ma'am. I had to come up because I couldn't get delivery of those
wallpapers you chose. Otherwise all the repairs and alterations are going
on as well as could be expected."
"And how is your wife, Aguilar?"
"She's nicely, thank ye, ma'am. I pointed out to the foreman that it would
be a mistake to make the dining-room door open the other way, as the
architect suggested. But he would do it. However, I've told you, ma'am.
It'll only have to be altered back. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I took
the liberty of taking a fortnight's holiday, ma'am. It's the only holiday I
ever did take, except the annual day off for the Colchester Rose Show,
which is perhaps more a matter of business with a head gardener than a
holiday, as ye might say. My wife wanted me in London."
"She's not caught yet?"
"No'm. And I don't think as she will be, not with me about. I never did
allow myself to be bossed by police, and I always been too much for 'em.
And as I'm on the matter, ma'am, I should like to give you notice as soon
as it's convenient. I wouldn't leave on any account till that foreman's off
the place; he's no better than a fool. But as soon afterwards as you like."
"Certainly, Aguilar. I was quite expecting it. Where are you going to
live?"
"Well, ma'am, I've got hold of a little poultry run business in the north
of London. It'll be handy for Holloway in case--And Jane asked me to give
you this letter, ma'am. I see her this morning."
Audrey read the note. Very short, it was signed "Jane" and "Nick," and
dated from a house in Fitzroy Street. It caused acute excitement in Audrey.
"I shall come at once," said she.
Getting rid of Aguilar, she knocked at the door of No. 37.
"Read that," she ordered Miss Ingate and Madame Piriac, giving them the
note jointly.
"And are you going?" said Miss Ingate, nervous and impressed.
"Of course," Audrey answered. "Don't they ask me to go at once? I meant to
write to my cousins at Woodbridge and my uncles in the colonies, and tell
them all that I was settling down at last. And I meant to look at those new
flats in Park Lane with Musa. But I shall have to leave all that for the
present. Also my lunch."
"But, darling," put in Madame Piriac, who had been standing before the
dressing-table trying on a hat. "But, darling, it is very serious, this
matter. What about your husband?"
"He'll keep," said Audrey. "He's had his turn. I must have mine now. I
haven't had a day off from being a wife for ever so long. And it's a little
enervating, you know. It spoils you for the fresh air."
"I imagined to myself that you two were happy in an ideal fashion,"
murmured Madame Piriac.
"So we are!" said Audrey. "Though a certain coolness did arise over the
luggage this morning. But I don't want to be ideally happy all the time.
And I won't be. I want--I want all the sensations there are; and I want to
be everything. And I can be. Musa understands."
"If he does," said Miss Ingate, "he'll be the first husband that ever did."
Her lips were sardonic.
"Well, of course," said Audrey nonchalantly, "he _is_. Didn't you know
that?... And didn't you tell me not to forget Lady Southminster?"
"Did I?" said Miss Ingate.
Audrey heard voices in the corridor. Musa was parting from a subservient
Shinner. Also the luggage was bumping along the carpet. She called her
husband into No. 37 and kissed him rather violently in front of Madame
Piriac and Miss Ingate, and showed him the note. Then she whispered to him,
smiling.
"What's that you're whispering?" Miss Ingate archly demanded.
"Nothing. I was only asking him to come and help me to open my big trunk. I
want something out of it. Au revoir, you two."
"What do you think of it all, Madame Piriac?" Miss Ingate inquired when the
pair were alone.
"'All the sensations there are!' 'Everything!'" Madame Piriac repeated
Audrey's phrases. "One is forced to conclude that she has an appetite for
life."
"Yes," said Miss Ingate, "she wants the lion's share of it, that's what she
wants. No mistake. But of course she's young."
"I was never young like that."
"Neither was I! Neither was I!" Miss Ingate asseverated. "But something
vehy, vehy strange has come over the world, if you ask me."